


Fiat iusticia

by lusilly



Series: Earth-28 [20]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: Streets of Gotham, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Women, Chaos, Chess Metaphors, Family Secrets, Gen, Kidnapping, Legal Drama, Major Original Character(s), Mystery, Sequel, Team Dynamics, Unknown Villain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 88,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusilly/pseuds/lusilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost four years after the disbanding of the Teen Titans, Damian finds himself in legal trouble. But as his friends and family get drawn into something darker, both in and out of uniform, chaos begins to descend. Who is pulling the strings? Who is launching this attack, not on Batman, not on Robin - but on Damian Wayne himself? </p><p>Set on the preboot canon-divergent alternate universe Earth-28. Sequel to Restoration but can be read standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impulse: Infinite Speed

**Author's Note:**

> Although strongly tied to Restoration through implied history between Damian, Lian, & Iris, this fic could stand on its own as well. If you’ve never read Restoration, I encourage you to read it first, but if not that’s OK as well, you’ll easily pick up the background info. 
> 
> This is Earth-28 canon, and will feature the new Streets of Gotham team, which includes Colin Wilkes, Nell Little, and the original characters Ellen Nayar, Lucas Kaai, Niloufar Ghorbani, and Jordan Joyce. Learn more about them here: http://lusilly.tumblr.com/tagged/sog2
> 
> Learn more about Earth-28 here: http://lusilly.tumblr.com/tagged/earth-28
> 
> "Fiat iusticia" is already completely written, but I will be taking my sweet time uploading it for reasons of continued editing. Expect chapter updates every two weeks or so. Ratings/tags may be updated as chapters progress.

**PROLOGUE**

            _Zzz. Tsst._ “Robin.”

            In the warm late spring air, uncharacteristically clear for a Gotham night, Damian Wayne paused. He crouched on a rooftop, surveying the city below him. It had been a long time since he had heard the voice at his ear, and longer still since someone had contacted him through that particular personal line. It had been more than four years ago, and the last words he’d spoken to her had been filled with anger and bitterness. At first, he did not speak, and then, hesitantly, he asked, “Arsenal? Is that you?”

            “Yeah,” she replied. “It’s me.”

            “How did you-”

            “Is Iris with you?”

            “No,” he said, cautiously, glancing around himself. “I haven’t seen Impulse since…”

            “Do you know where she is?”

            Her voice was steady and unchanging, but he wasn’t about to let a question like that go so easily. A hint of cruelty in his voice, he asked, “Did you wander away from your keeper, Arsenal? Stay put, I’m sure she’ll come looking for you eventu-”

            “She’s not here.”

            There was a tinge of something new in Lian’s voice, and despite himself, Damian felt his pulse quicken. “Are you at work?” he asked her, voice measured and slick. “Did something happen to her?”

            “Yes,” answered Lian. “But she hasn’t been kidnapped, if that’s what you mean.”

            “What happened?”

            “She left.”

            “Then she’s running. She’ll be back soon.”

            “It’s been sixteen hours.”

            Damian bit his tongue, holding back a curse.

            “She’s not responding to any of my contact.”

            “Where were you the last time you spoke to her?”

            “Here. We’re in London, she was right here next to me, we were about to go to bed-”

            She broke off abruptly. Damian closed his eyes, tried not to let it sound in his voice. “And?”

            “We were arguing. Her powers are getting more and more unstable, and I’m concerned, and she didn’t want to hear my opinion.”

            “About her powers?”

            Hesitation. “And her family.”

            “About Jai.”

            “Yeah.”

            Damian didn’t say anything. Then he continued, “Contact your father. I’ll get word to Flash. She may be with him, you know.”

            “With her father?”

            “With her brother.”

            “Then why wouldn’t she answer me?”

            “Perhaps she needed some time alone with him.”

            “Don’t go sentimental on me now.”

            “I’m not.” He closed the line. For a moment, he did nothing, and then he said aloud: “Commlink: Impulse. Encryption delta-gamma-six-five-five.”

            A blinking noise, and then a _click_ as the connection went through. He heard nothing.

            “Impulse,” he said.

            Silence.

            “Impulse,” he repeated. “This is an emergency line, respond.”

            Nothing.

            He waited, then closed the line again. He didn’t move for a moment, then opened another. “Oracle,” he said. “I need a message to the Flash right away.”

            “Which one?”

            “League Flash.”

            “About?”

            “Tell him,” he paused, considering his words, eyes scanning across the vast cityscape, “we can’t find his daughter.”

            Thousands of miles away, Lian Harper stood in a London safehouse, putting on her gear, fishing weaponry out of a closet, a phone pressed to her ear. “I know it’s early,” she said. “But I think we have a bit of a situation here.”

            “Are you OK?” asked Roy.

            “I’m fine,” she said. “But…”

            “Iris?”

            “She’s gone.”

            “What do you mean, _she’s gone_?”

            “What do you mean, _what do you mean_? How much simpler can I make it for you, Dad, she’s gone, she’s not here. I can’t find her.”

            “Did something happen? You get attacked, or-”

            Lian tucked the phone in between her ear and shoulder, slipping on gloves. “I think she just left,” she said, honestly, miserably. “And she’s not answering any of my communication. That’s either because I just got jilted, hard, or because she’s in trouble. And I think it’s the latter, because I just called Damian and she’s not with him.”

            “Lian-”

            “I don’t know what’s going on,” she said, cutting him off. “But I’m calling you because I’m worried about her.”

            “Where are you?”

            “London. I can meet you in, I don’t know, Gotham, maybe, in three hours, but-”

            “Are you in danger?”

            “No. I don’t think so.”

            “Stay there. She might come back to you.”

            Offended, Lian began, “That’s the same thing Damian said-”

            “OK, well, he was right. I’ll call Wally. Stay right there, and stay on the line with me.”

            “Dad-”

            “Don’t, Lian. It’s been a whole year since you last called me, and I’m gonna get mad as hell at you about that, but not right now. Right now we have to find Iris.” He paused, then began again: “You know Wally and Linda already have one child who’s…” unable to finish the thought, he broke off, then fell silent. Lian stopped searching for weapons, and stood there in the safehouse alone.

\----

            In full costume, the Flash stood inside the small hospital room, silent except for the gentle whirring of machines providing the boy on the bed with artificial breath and sustenance, and for the ever-present buzzing of a body not-quite-solid.

            Wally West did not spend all his time in his son’s hospital room, but in the four years that it had been since the boy’s attack, he often found himself standing there alone, in silence, feeling empty somewhere deep inside his chest.

            An alarm went off on his communicator; he answered immediately, breaking the silence of the room: “Flash here.”

            Oracle’s voice. “Wally, do you know where your daughter is?”

            “With Lian. Somewhere in Europe.”

            “She’s not with Lian. She’s not with you?”

            A frozen stillness seized at his heart. “No. Is she in danger?”

            “I don’t know,” answered Oracle, simply. “Lian called it in a few minutes ago. She can’t reach Iris, and neither can Damian. We don’t know if it’s anything serious yet. Maybe she’s with Jai.”

            “She’s not,” said Wally.

            “How do you know?” asked Barbara.

            Wally didn’t reply, but Barbara realized why before the question was even completely out of her mouth.

            “Go home,” she said. “Maybe she’s with her mother.”

            “Linda isn’t…”

            “Wally?”

            “Linda’s with her parents. The house is empty.”

            Barbara’s heart broke. There was barely any emotion in Wally’s voice, only a cold sort of surrender. “She doesn’t know that,” she said quietly. “Maybe she went back.”

            Wally clenched his jaw tightly, then raised a hand to rub his temples. “Yeah. I’ll check.”

            “Okay.”

            “Babs?”

            “Yes?”

            “Call Clark,” he said. “And Bruce, and everybody. Get their eyes out there.”

            “I already sent the word out. Everybody’s looking out for her.” Almost wryly, Barbara added, “I give her ten minutes before Wonder Woman picks her up.”

            Wally didn’t reply. Without a word, he terminated the connection, then took a few steps forward; he laid a hand on his son and then disappeared, speeding back to his home. When he reached the house, everything was cloaked with the grayness of approaching dawn. He sped through the house, checked the rooms, the basement, out back. Nothing. He stood in his daughter’s room, then he pressed a hand to his face silently.

            He disappeared again, heading to a place on some rocks from which you could see the whole city; her favorite spot. Nothing. He ran to Titans Tower, currently empty, and found nothing there, even if he did set off several alarms. His lips pressed tightly together, he scoured through every place he could think she would be, including Gotham. He ran all the way to London, found Lian in the safehouse, still desperately trying to contact Iris, and ran through the whole city, searching. Nothing.

            It was only a little later that he was torn from his search by another call. “Wally,” came Roy’s hard voice. “We’re at the Tower. I have a trace on her, but-”

            “Where is she?”

            “Wally-”

            “Where _is she?_ ”

            A silence. “I don’t know.”

            “You just said-”

            “Something’s gone wrong,” said Roy. “Listen, we have everybody here. Let’s figure this out. Come back.”

            “I’m – _dammit,_ Roy.”

            “I know,” said Roy. “We’ll find her. I swear.”

            Wally didn’t move, and then he flickered and was gone, heading back across the continent. He came to a stop on the top of the Titans Tower, in the early rising San Francisco sun. Roy approached him, offering a reassuring grip on his shoulder, but Wally only looked behind him. Superman stood there, with – Linda. She met his gaze, but gave no other indication of greeting. “Bruce is on his way,” murmured Roy. “He’s still looking. Everybody else is out there, too.”

            “Is Lian here?”

            Roy didn’t quite nod. “She just got back. She’s with Damian.”

            Wally didn’t say anything, then he looked past Roy, to Superman. “Thank you,” he said. “You know Iris, I’m sure she’s just…” He looked at them, his voice failing. “We just need to find her,” he said, clearing his throat. “Roy, you said you had a trace on her?”

            “Yeah,” said Roy. “That’s the thing. Both she and Lian have subdermal implants. Not only is it supposed to tell us where she is, but also if she’s in critical danger.”

            “Defined as?”

            “Vitals crashing.”       

            “And?”

            Roy held out a device to Wally. There was a small red dot on the screen. “That’s Lian,” said Roy. He hit a button, and the screen refreshed, then refreshed again, then again, endlessly loading and reloading itself. “And this is what I get when I try to activate Iris’s.”

            “What does that mean?” asked Wally. “Is it broken?”

            “I don’t think so,” said Roy. “It’s functioning perfectly fine in every other way. Look, it seems to be at least attempting to transmit information. If she were hurt, I’m sure we would know about it.”

            “So what are you saying?” asked Wally, his voice louder now. “You can’t find her? Is she underground, is she off-planet-”

            “I don’t think so,” said Roy, his voice slow. “I think she might be moving too fast for us.”

            Wally looked at the device, then up at Roy. “She can’t,” he said.

            “I don’t know how else to explain it,” said Roy. “This thing…it’s jamming. I looked at it, and the thing is, Wally, it’s not saying that she’s nowhere.” He hesitated. “It’s saying she’s _everywhere_.”

            Wally looked at Roy, then past him, at Superman and Linda. “That’s impossible,” he said. “Even before, she was never that fast. You can’t _get_ that fast.”

            “She could be streamlining the Speed Force,” said Linda. “It’s happened before, it creates incredible speed-”

            “Not for this long,” replied Wally. “And I’ve been running this whole time, and my speed hasn’t been affected-”

            “Not negatively, you mean.”

            They all turned around. Batman stood there, watching them all. “What does that mean?” asked Wally aggressively.

            “Where were you when you got Red Arrow’s call?” asked Batman.

            Wally began, “Bruce-”

            Batman asked again, his voice hard, “Where were you?”

            Watching him warily, Wally answered, “France. Iris – she goes to Paris, sometimes. She used to. Run there, I mean.”

            “You ran that distance,” said Bruce, “in fifty-eight seconds.”

            Wally stared at him. “No,” he said.

            Bruce didn’t even nod. “Over six thousand miles,” he said, “in sixty seconds. That’s a record for you.”

            “That’s impossible,” said Wally. “I’ve never gone that fast.”

            “Unless there’s something happening,” said Bruce, “with the Speed Force. It’s changing your top speed. It’s increasing.”

            Wally stared at him. “You think Iris is doing this?”

            “She has far more power than any of us ever credited her,” he said quietly. “Robin tells me-”

            “I don’t care what Robin told you,” said Wally impatiently, his eyes flashing. “I don’t-”

            He broke off suddenly, looking around wildly.

            “Superman,” he said. “Did you feel that?”

            “Yes,” said Superman, his eyes focused on a spot before him. Lightning quick, he reached out as if to grab something, but his arms turned up empty.

            “What is it?” asked Linda. “Is she here?”

            Wally looked around, then he flickered and shimmered slightly, his body speeding up. “Wally,” said Roy, reaching out to take hold of him. “Wally! Stay here!”

            “I can feel her,” breathed Wally. “She’s – Roy – she’s… _everywhere_.”

            “What’s happening?” demanded Linda. “Wally?”

            “She’s not streamlining the Speed Force,” said Wally urgently, sounding almost frightened. “She’s bringing it here.”

            “What does that mean?” asked Linda. She couldn’t hold back, and she crossed the roof, reaching out to take firm hold of her husband. “Wally? She can’t – she can’t _bring it here_ , it’s on a different dimensional plane – Wally-”

            “She’s – she’s taking hold of it…” he looked at his wife, his eyes wide, his body flickering slightly. “Can’t you feel it?”

            “Feel _what?_ ” asked Linda desperately.

            “The Speed Force,” said Wally, his voice sounding far away. “She’s…becoming it.”

            “ _What?_ ”

            “Moving,” said Wally, reaching his hand out. “She’s moving, faster than anyone ever has. Faster than anything. She’s taking it into her. Instead of being pulled into it – she’s pulling it _into her_.”

            “What?” asked Linda, terrified. “Why?”

            Wally didn’t say anything for a moment, then suddenly he was looking into his wife’s eyes. “Jai,” he whispered.

            And then they were gone.

            A moment later, Linda took a gasping breath, held in her husband’s arms, standing alone in Jai’s hospital room. It was quiet and seemingly still. Linda held her breath, then took a few unsteady steps forward, reaching out to touch her son. Wally was still flickering frantically.

            “She’s here,” he said. “She’s everywhere. She’s…so _fast_ , Linda…im _possibly_ fast…”

            “Well,” said Linda quietly, taking her son’s hand. “They always were impossible, Wally.”

            And then: a crashing, booming noise, the sound barrier broken a thousand times, a shining, shimmering _something_ in the hospital room with them, whipping up winds like a storm, blowing away all of Jai’s equipment – destroying an entire wall, tearing it right off its frame, and Linda screamed and squinted her eyes but – she couldn’t see anything, just a great, crackling energy.

            “ _Iris_ ,” shouted Wally, above the din, and then Linda saw it: in the midst of it all, the energy, the power, was the tall, slim figure of a young woman – their daughter.

            She didn’t look at them. She looked shockingly powerful, and the force and power and sheer breadth of the Speed Force pushed against them, propelling them away; the machines Jai was hooked up to started going crazy, beeping and crashing and sounding alarms.

            Iris stood by her brother’s bed. Wally and Linda tried to stand, to approach her, but could hardly draw a breath in the frantic presence of such power.

            Iris reached out one hand, extended one thin finger, and touched her brother’s hand.

            Jai’s body convulsed and his back arched instantly, a scream ripping through the noise; Linda screamed their names, but Iris didn’t move and Jai could not respond, his body seizing silently, charges of what looked like pure electricity wrapping around him.

            And then, in an instant, she was gone; the rushing stopped, and Jai fell back limply on the bed. Linda rushed to his side. “Jai?” she said. “Jai, baby? Can you hear me?” Medical personnel rushed into the room, and Jai’s head moved slightly, and then his eyes fluttered halfway open. Tears streaked down Linda’s face. “Baby,” she said, collapsing across his body. “My baby.”

            “Mom?” came Jai’s voice, hazy and confused. “What…what happened…?”

            “Your sister,” said Linda, reaching out, touching his face. “Your sister made you better, Jai. Iris made you better.”

            “I…” he stared at his mother, then looked at his father. “What’s _happ_ eni _ng?_ ” he asked, his voice quick and unnatural. “ _Why_ is _sheso_ slo _w?_ ”

            “Iris reopened your connection to the Speed Force, Jai,” said Wally. “I think she knew it was the only way to wake you up.”

            Jai stared at him.

            “You have powers now, Jai,” said Wally. “You have speed.”

            Linda wept, holding her child, and Wally reached out and held onto her and onto Jai tightly, and then he said, “I need to find her,” and he disappeared.


	2. Tabiya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tabia (or Tabiya)  
> from Arabic طبيعة ṭabīʕa, "normal manner"
> 
> 1\. A position for the pieces from which a shatranj game was started: piece movement in shatranj was slow, hence games were possibly started from standard position, named Tabiyas, obtained by standard move sequences from the initial position.  
> 2\. As extension: the final position of a well-known chess opening. The position can be reached via different move sequences, even arising from different openings, and is usually considered prototypical in terms of strategic ideas.  
> 3\. The opening position from which two players familiar with each others' tastes begin play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meeting most of the Streets of Gotham team in this first chapter. Although I consider my Damian to be significantly lighter than he’s been in the past, be warned: my Colin Wilkes is much darker.

**PART ONE**

**\----**

            Damian slowly circled the desk, brushing his fingers across the dark wooden finish. He paused, one hand on the back of the seat, peering out the glass wall, transfixed by the city below him.

            He turned and said, “Thank you for this, Father, but forgive me if I’m slightly suspect of your motives.”

            “How so?” asked Bruce coolly, hands in his pockets, watching his son.

            The mid-afternoon sun filled the office with bright, clear air; Damian thought his father looked strange, unreal, artificial, in such light. “It’s nepotistic,” said Damian frankly. “If I do work for you, I want it to be on my own merit, not because you feel obligated to fulfill some father-son legacy nonsense.”

            “You’ve been managing Tim’s assets flawlessly for over a year now,” Bruce replied, “and you have become an invaluable resource to my financial advisors. You have absolutely earned this office.”

            “Yes, but,” said Damian, seemingly determined to protest. He gestured towards the frosted glass walls. “This is a very visible move,” he said. “It’s poor public relations. You hardly need another accusation of corruption-”

            “Damian,” interrupted Bruce, his voice calm and composed. Damian fell silent, meeting his father’s gaze. “I would be remiss if I didn’t ask you to officially join the company. People know you. Anyone whose word matters will understand.”

            Damian hesitated, considering this for a moment further. Cautiously, he nodded.

            Bruce added, “This is just an offer. You may decline if you wish.”

            With a small sigh, moving out from behind the desk, Damian said, “I’d like to accept. But I’ve been very involved with expanding the Neon Knights, and until the new developments are finished, at least here in Gotham, it has to be my number one priority.”

            “That’s fine,” replied Bruce. “The Neon Knights Foundation is a subsidiary of the Wayne Foundation, anyway. You’re still technically working for me.”

            For a long moment, Damian was silent. He turned to stare out the window again, at the vast, expansive city below him. Skyscrapers loomed across the horizon, cutting sharp black and white doors into the gray-blue sky. The late summertime air was thick with a dusty, soul-sucking heat, somehow dry enough to parch throats, but in the same moment deep and pervasively moist. Gotham heat was unlike any other; it was inescapable and sick, like a mist creeping along the city blocks, or a fungus spreading across the starkly white sidewalks. When autumn hit in full bloom, it would bring relief, cool fall breezes a salve to a starving, hungry metropolis.

            His eyes on the streets below – he could see cars driving, and people walking; a woman pushed a child in a stroller – Damian said, “I accept. It would be an honor to work for Wayne Enterprises.”

            “I’m glad,” said Bruce. “This company needs a mind like yours.”

            “When do I start?”

            “Monday, officially. If you could draft a statement for the public announcement by tomorrow.”

            “Of course.”

            The smile on Bruce’s face was easy, and Damian knew him well enough to recognize the brightness in his eyes, the total satisfaction there. Damian did not return the smile, but watched his father with dark eyes. “Thank you,” said Bruce, bowing his head in a slight nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting. You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like-”

            “No,” said Damian shortly. “I have business in the city, if that’s all right.”

            “Certainly.  I’ll see you at home.”

            “Yes.”

            Bruce paused for a moment, surveying the room. He said, “Damian.”

            Damian met his gaze.

            He said, “I’m proud to have you here. Thank you.”

            For a moment, Damian did not respond. Then he nodded just barely, and Bruce turned and left through the thin, transparent glass door.

            Damian looked to the window again. He could feel the warm late summer sun heating the glass, struggling against the cool, controlled temperature of the office. Glancing back at the desk, he noticed a small framed photograph and picked it up, held it in his hands. It was from a few years ago, on one of those monstrous hiking trips. Him, his father, and the dog. He ran his thumb over the glass in the frame, touching the small, almost imperceptible smile on his father’s face, and his own wide, bright, daring eyes. Damian put the photo back on the desk and took his suitcase and something wrapped in paper, then exited the office. Before the elevator, he slid his keycard through the identifier and typed in the code. There was an approving _beep_ and a few moments later, the elevator doors opened.

            He hit a second code once the doors closed, and the elevator headed downwards. A minute later, it came to a shuddering halt and the doors opened; Damian strode forward, pressed a palm against a screen, and recited a string of numbers and letters aloud. The heavy, thick steel door in front of him unlocked with a clunking _hiss_.

            He entered the Bunker and descended the steps down to the main computer hub, where the screen was lit up with information, the chair before it occupied. He laid his briefcase on one of the supply tables, then approached the seat.

            “Hello,” he said, holding out the thin parcel wrapped in paper. “I got something for you.”

            Ellen Nayar, sitting before the computers, took the package and pulled the paper away from the top, revealing a small bouquet of red roses. “Sweet,” she said, sounding amused. She set the flowers aside, glancing up at him with deep, liquid brown eyes. “How was lunch with your father?”

            “Tolerable,” replied Damian, peering up at the screen. “It was only a matter of time before he formally inaugurated me into the company. It’ll be mine when he steps down, anyway.”

            “Optimistic.”

            “It’s true.”

            “Maybe,” she said, typing something into the computer. “At least you’ll be here more often, if you’re working in the Tower.”

            “Indeed.” There was a pause, and then, his voice low and tinged with anxiety, he asked, “Have you found anything?”

            “No,” she responded, bringing up a screen of information. “Nothing. I’m not even sure we’re looking in the right place. I’m starting to get the feeling you’re overestimating how much Colin’s actually involved-”

            “I’m no,” said Damian simply, his eyes sliding across the screen. “It’s too calculated.” He turned away, went back to his briefcase, opening it, and shedding his jacket. “Keep going, contact Oracle if you need her help. And keep him off the streets.”

            “He won’t listen to me,” said Ellen, turning around to look at him. “You know how he gets.”

            “Yes,” replied Damian, carefully extracting dark, shining black components from the case. Ellen’s eyes slid down to watch his fingers at work, mesmerized. “I do.” His hands worked deftly and gracefully, assembling the weapon. “Activate his tracer and keep me updated with a live feed. I’ll speak to him.”

            “He won’t listen to you either.”

            “Then,” said Damian, pulling up his sleeves and extracting a syringe from the cabinet before him, “I’ll set up an appointment with Batman. I doubt even Colin would refuse an order from him.”

            Ellen watched Damian’s hands carefully loading a dart into the big gun. “What are you doing?” she asked.

            “I need to have a…” he paused, the shadow of a smirk flickering across his face, “… _discussion_ with Mister Declan Riley, of Wayne R-and-D. There have been some indications of misconduct and, understandably, I’m eager to sort it out.”

            Abandoning the seat before the computers, Ellen sidled over to where Damian stood, inspecting an empty vial, with the contents of which he’d filled the dart. “Why the sniper rifle?” she asked casually. “Can’t your father handle this in the boardroom?”

            “He doesn’t know about it yet,” answered Damian, assembling the last of the parts. “I’ve been digging into the company’s affairs, making sure everything is running correctly. I don’t want to be part of an organization I can’t trust.”

            He held up the gun, peering into the scope, then glanced at her, grinning.

            “Besides,” he said, “it’s much more fun this way.”

            She returned the smile. “Are you bringing him down here for this conversation?”

            “No,” he replied. “Abandoned warehouse on the docks.”

            “Ah, yes,” she said, nodding wisely. “Intimidation is everything.”

            “Indeed it is. Would you like to accompany me?”

            “I would love to, Mister Wayne.”

            He placed the gun back on the table, delicately, and looked at her. She returned his gaze, their eyes meeting, and then he leaned forward and took a lock of her dark hair in his hand, trailing his thumb down the side of her face, the puckered scar marring her brown skin. They said nothing. He took his hand away and said, “That reminds me. I need to speak to Colin about coming in for the interview.”

            “Interview?” echoed Ellen. “He has a job.”

            “For the pharmaceuticals trial,” Damian said. “I can get him a place, but he needs to be cooperative.”

            “Well,” said Ellen quietly, looking back at the gun on the table. “That could be a problem.”

            They were silent for a moment, then Damian began, “Does Lucas-?”

            “Yes,” answered Ellen. “He knows. He’s being careful. And if you want Colin to do anything, Lucas is the one you really want to talk to.”

            “I will,” said Damian, then he shouldered the gun. “I’ll send you the location when I’m en route,” he said, heading up the stairs. “Half an hour, maybe.”

            “You’re not going in uniform?” she called, as he headed away from her.

            He turned and didn’t quite smile, but there was a smirk in his eyes, even if it didn’t touch his lips. “Business suit and ski mask,” he replied. “Far more frightening than bright red and yellow, don’t you think? After all,” he called, turning away again, “intimidation is everything, my love.”

            By the time Damian returned to the Manor, dusk had fallen, the last of the twilight’s gloaming sucked from the atmosphere. He knew he’d driven back too quickly, reckless in his gratification after an evening spent with Ellen. These were the days he seriously considered getting a permanent place of his own, because he could never bring her back to the Manor, and he could never go to the small apartment she shared with her grandparents. So they were always meeting halfway, finding places inside safehouses and the Bunker and, occasionally, his car, to meet and stay awhile with each other. Soon, he thought, they would have a place together, and nothing would have to be in secret anymore. He entered the big house from the garage underneath quietly, gently closing the door; he assumed that his father would be in the Cave and Alfred either with him or in the kitchen, but as he had learned from living in Wayne Manor for a decade, there was hardly anything he could do without somebody noticing.

            And so it was that as Damian headed up the stairs to his room, a door opened and a familiar face wearing glasses poked out, peering at him with distaste. “Where were you?” asked Tim Drake.

            “Out,” replied Damian shortly. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

            Tim stepped out of the room, watching Damian. “I have some business I need to finish up. It involves you, actually.”

            Sourly, Damian asked, “Do you need something?”

            “Yeah, I need – hold on.” He went back into the room, retrieved a sheet of paper, and came back out, saying, “I need some financial records from May of this year.” He glanced up at Damian. “I don’t know, gotta be a clerical error or something, but we’re missing a couple thousand dollars.”

            Damian blinked, then crossed the corridor, taking the paper from Tim’s hands and squinting at it. “That can’t be right,” he murmured, inspecting the records. “I’m sure you’re just misinformed. Every dollar is accounted for in my reports.”

            “OK,” said Tim. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if you can dig them up that’d be helpful. It’s probably just a mistake.”

            “Likely.” Damian handed the paper back to Tim, and then hesitated. “Did my father tell you…?”

            “Oh,” said Tim, “yeah, he did. Congratulations. He’s right, you deserve it.”

            Damian nodded. “Thank you. I’m afraid this means that my activity in your organization may be facing its end.”

            “We’ll manage. Hey, are you going to be at that charity gala thing on Sunday?”

            “I assumed I had to be,” replied Damian coolly. “One wouldn’t want the image of the Foundation to be reduced to you _alone_.”

            “You’re funny, as usual,” said Tim, looking down at the paper in his hand, shaking his head. “Real funny.”

            Damian almost chuckled, then headed down the hall to his own room. “I’ll search for those financial records,” he said. “But as far as I’m aware they should be available to you already electronically. Must I do all your work for you?”

            “Go to hell, Damian,” called Tim absently, still staring at the paper before him. After Damian’s door closed behind him, cutting him off mid-laugh, Tim paused for a few moments, then headed downstairs, towards the grandfather clock and behind it, descending down into the Cave. Bruce sat before the computers; Tim strode right up to him and put the paper down on the controls before him, staring at Bruce, silently demanding his gaze.

            Bruce tore his eyes away from the screen and glanced at Tim. He asked, “Is there something you’d like to say?”

            “Yes,” said Tim. “Here’s the thing: there’s no way this isn’t bullshit.”

            Bruce blinked at him. “Pardon?”

            “The thing,” insisted Tim, pressing an accusatory finger into the paper. “The Neon Knights thing, all the money gone missing. I was a little worried about it, that’s why I came home, but I just talked to him and – Bruce, you know I don’t _love_ Damian, but there’s just no way. He’s been working for me for a year and not once has he shown any shred of dishonesty or indecency. I just don’t believe it.”

            Bruce didn’t respond for a moment, then leaned back slightly in his seat, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “That makes me very happy to hear, Tim,” he said calmly. “I’m pleased that you have such faith in him.” He paused, then asked, “What exactly is your problem?”

            “Here,” said Tim, pointing to the paper. “May of this year. Fifty-five thousand dollars. February. Seventy-two thousand dollars. Last December, one hundred and twelve thousand dollars. August, eighty-nine thousand, June, a hundred ten. And last April, right when Damian started managing our finances – a hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars. Gone. Completely untraceable, I’ve been at it for the past few days.”

            “When did you get news of this?” asked Bruce, taking the paper. “Isn’t this something you should have noticed much earlier?”

            “That’s the thing,” replied Tim earnestly. “It’s buried deep in our budget. Tam actually noticed and contacted me last week about it, and when I checked, there it is. Tucked away in some corner so you wouldn’t notice on first inspection, but it’s there. Money just gone. Bruce, this is five hundred thousand. And the records aren’t even complete for this month. There could be more.”

            “And you think this involves Damian.”

            Tim hesitated. He glanced back up at the entrance to the Cave, then lowered his voice, leaning against the control panel, slouching in towards Bruce. “Tam got a tip,” he said. “We’ve got a lawyer on our asses, snooping into this, asking questions. Tam didn’t know what to tell her, so she just passed it along to me and told her we were working on it. And we are. But this woman said that she had some proof about Damian specifically, although she wouldn’t give it to us.”

            Bruce’s eyes were hard, staring at a spot on the page he held. “Have you contacted your legal team?”

            “She agreed not to go public with it without discussing it further with us.”

            The artificial blue glow of the screen cast flickering, dramatic shadows across Bruce’s face, making him look hauntingly supernatural. “Good,” he said. “If this breaks, it needs to be on our terms.” He paused, then said, “We’re releasing a statement about his entrance into the company on Sunday. I was hoping we could use the Foundation gala to make the announcement.”

            “Sure,” answered Tim cautiously. “But, like you just said, _this_ could break, and I don’t know if you want those two columns in the newspaper right next to each other.”

            “No,” agreed Bruce. “Should we postpone the announcement?”

            Tim considered this for a few moments. He thought of the look in Damian’s eyes earlier, when he had inspected the paper, tentatively asked if Bruce had spoken to him. Tim said, “No, don’t bother. It’d look suspicious, like we have something to hide. And there’s no way we do. There’s no way Damian had anything to do with this. I mean, look – he wasn’t even _here_ in February, he was doing that thing with-”

            “Talia, yes,” finished Bruce, a finger hovering at his lips thoughtfully. “His absence wasn’t public. If someone were setting him up, they wouldn’t have known he was gone.”

            “Exactly. So it _can’t_ be him.”

            “But,” said Bruce, his eyes flickering up to Tim’s, “we can’t use that as an alibi. Officially, Damian hasn’t seen his mother in years and, publically, we’re going to keep it that way.”

            “OK,” said Tim, taking the paper and straightening up, his eyes still on Bruce, a hint of worry reflecting in them. “But if we get challenged on this-”

            “It’s just one lawyer,” said Bruce, looking back at the screen. “I’m sure the combined clout of Wayne Enterprises will be enough to keep him safe.”

            “Careful Bruce,” said Tim, sighing slightly and heading back up the stairs. “You’re so sure. Don’t want to jinx it.”

            He left, and Bruce was in the dark cave, alone.

            Late that night, Damian knelt on a rooftop in the city, peering out into the darkness, his face expressionless but for a slight patina of discomfort. He listened in silence to the voice in his ear. “So Jai is awake,” he said.

            “Yes,” said the voice on the other end. “With the new superspeed, he’s already healed. I talked to him.”

            Damian was silent for a moment, and then he asked, “She gave him speed?”

            “She opened his connection to the Speed Force, is how their mom puts it.”

            “And their father?”

            “The Flash has been looking for her since it happened,” answered Lian Harper, back in Star City for the first time in years, testing her bow. “Speedsters are saying they’ve seen him, but nobody’s seen Impulse.”

            Damian made no indication of emotion, only said grimly, “It’s been almost a month, Arsenal.”

            “I know. I don’t think she can control it.”

            “You know why she cut off his connection in the first place,” pressed Damian. “Back when they both had powers. It was killing them, she needed to streamline it to save him.”

            “Well,” said Lian, letting out a silent breath. “He’s saved now.”

            Damian looked away from the city, standing up and turning around to face inwards towards the center of the roof. “I don’t know why you called me,” he said, his voice lowered. “I don’t have the capabilities to track her down. Kid Flash would be the best choice. He’s always been closer to her level than anyone-”

            “Robin,” said Lian, interrupting him. “I didn’t call you for help.”

            He was silent. He pressed a hand to his face, rubbing against his eyes. He said, “She’s got more power than anyone can even fathom.”

            “I know that.”

            “You don’t know that. Not like I do.” Silence. There was a quiet _beep_ on Damian’s end. “Hold on,” he said, and he answered the other call. “Robin here.”

            “Ember said to keep you updated,” came a bright, familiar voice. “Abuse is two blocks south of you.”

            Damian let out a quiet oath, and said, “Does he at least have Lux with him?”

            “Yep,” replied Nell, no doubt lounging in the Bunker with her books open, studying. “But they’re not exactly keeping a low profile.”

            “Of course they wouldn’t. Thank you, Spoiler, I’ll be right with him.”

            “OK! Good luck.” The line closed with a _click_.

            For a moment, Damian was silent, and then he said, “Arsenal, I need to go.”

            “Right. I understand.”

            “Do keep me updated. If anything happens.”

            “Absolutely.”

            He hesitated, then said, “She’s still out there. She’ll come back down eventually.”

            “That’s what I’m hoping for. Goodnight, Robin.”

            “Goodnight.”

            He closed the line, for a moment unmoving in the dank Gotham night. Then he turned and threaded through the city, across rooftops and down fire escapes, down pathways he had long-since memorized until he came before an empty warehouse. Inside, he could hear the telltale sounds of a fight ending.

            He slipped in through the roof and dropped to the floor. “Abuse.”

            The man – more like a creature, Damian always thought – whipped around suddenly, a growling, grunting roar ripping through the groans of the men lying on the ground. Damian only watched him.

            Colin didn’t move for a moment; behind him, Lucas – eyes obscured by his dark mask – looked up, one knee on the back of one of the men, binding his wrists together.

            And then, abruptly, Colin let out another grunt and swept around, leaving the warehouse, banging a steel door hanging loosely on its hinges on his way out. Damian straightened up, dark eyes following him. Lucas moved on to the next few nearly-unconscious men, tightening zip ties around their wrists in silence. Then he said, “He doesn’t want to hear it.”

            “I don’t care,” said Damian coolly, turning back to Lucas. “He’s in danger, and his negligence is putting you in danger, not to mention the rest of your team.”

            “We can handle ourselves OK,” said Lucas, stepping over the men to stand before Damian, almost beseechingly. “Haven’t we proven that?”

            “Of course you have,” replied Damian shortly. “But we’re not talking petty street crime. This is something bigger. Far more dangerous.”

            Lucas watched him, his eyes obscured by the mask of pure black, nearly the same color as his irises. His voice hushed, he asked, “How can you tell?”

            “I can feel it,” replied Damian, watching the door through which Colin had exited. “When you’ve been working as long as I have, Lux, you develop a sense for these sorts of things.” He paused, then his eyes slid back to Lucas. Dropping his voice, he leaned in and murmured, “The Neon Knights Foundation is hosting a charity gala tomorrow night.” Lucas nodded. “Your name will be on the guest list. Plus one, of course.”

            “That’s very kind,” said Lucas. “But I wouldn’t want to provoke any suspicion-”

            “You won’t,” Damian assured him. “The Kai family has never been a stranger to these social functions.”

            Lucas watched Damian almost nervously for a moment, then nodded.

            Damian said, “Let me speak to him,” and slipped away, out of the door, into the night. A cool breeze swept in from the ocean, relief on the hot summer night. As Damian approached him, he saw Colin sitting on the ground beside the building, holding a cigarette between his lips, one side of his body starkly illuminated by the sodium yellow of a nearby streetlight. Damian watched him for a long time, then said, “I need you to quit that.”

            Colin glanced up at him, then took the cigarette away from his mouth, blowing rings of smoke into the darkness. “What do you want,” he said, his voice hard.

            “I want you not to be on the streets.”

            “There’s no reason I shouldn’t be out here. We busted a meth lab tonight. That’s something.”

            “Yes,” said Damian. “But it cannot come at the cost of your safety.”

            “Says the kid wearing bright red. You know the only reason Batman keeps you around is to attract bullet fire away from him, right?”

            Damian said nothing, only stood there before Colin, watching him impassively. “Abuse,” he said finally.

            “What.”

            “Come to the interview.”

            “No.”

            “It can only help.”

            Colin spat on the ground, then dropped his cigarette, angrily crushing it into the street with the bottom of his palm. “Or,” he said, rubbing the burn on his hand against his shirt, “they could take away my powers.”

            Damian watched him, almost tiredly. Then he crouched beside him and asked seriously, “What powers?”

            Colin looked at him with hatred in his eyes, baring his teeth furiously. “I don’t need your help.”

            “It’s not _my_ help. It’s an experimental drug meant to balance chemical production in your body. It won’t affect your behavior, but it could help regulate your ability to transform.” Damian paused, waiting for a reply. When none came, he continued. “You would not only be helping yourself, but those who will come after you.”

            Colin looked up at him with heavy, hooded eyes. Derisively, he asked, “Those with monster blood in their veins?”

            Damian cocked his head sideways. “Not exactly. But it’s a drug trial. What harm can it do?” When Colin didn’t reply, Damian added, “I have personally looked into this, for your sake. I know you need it.”

            Colin looked away again, his arms resting on his knees. He said, “I don’t want to be a lab rat.”

            “All it takes is two pills, once a day,” said Damian. “If it has any negative side effects, we’ll take you off right away.” Colin said nothing, only stared ahead bitterly. “Colin,” muttered Damian, dropping his head slightly to catch his gaze. “I won’t have you on the streets like this.”

            Letting out a sound half between a sigh and a grunt, Colin said, “You can’t make me do anything.”

            “I can break your legs,” said Damian evenly, scrutinizing the redhead before him. “And your arms and fingers, if you resist.” Colin said nothing. “Your training alone is not enough for you to be out here working, not without your abilities.”

            “Ellen-”

            “Ember,” said Damian, still staring at Colin, his voice firm, “is far more skilled than you are. You know that.” A pause. “You didn’t use to need her skill.”

            “I still don’t,” retorted Colin.

            “Not if you can transform,” pressed Damian. “But if you can’t, if this power isn’t under your control anymore, then I will _not_ have you on patrol. Is that clear?”

            “No,” said Colin, all but spitting poison.

            Damian stood up, looking down on him. “The interview is on Monday. Wayne Pharmaceuticals offices. I won’t be able to accompany you, but I’ll send you the information tonight.”

            “Ah, that’s all right,” said Colin darkly, getting to his feet. “Luke’ll be there to hold my hand.”

            They watched each other for a moment, the warm darkness in between them, hanging like a fog around their throats. Damian reached out and put a hand on Colin’s arm. Quietly, he said, “Three people are dead.”

            “I didn’t know them,” said Colin, almost before the words were out of Damian’s mouth. Something new entered his voice, something loosely frantic, and he repeated, “I don’t know them at all. You don’t know it has anything to do with me.”

            Gently, Damian continued, “They all had the same toxin in them that gave you-”

            “-I didn’t _know_ them.”

            For a moment, neither of them said anything, but Damian watched him with a slight crease in his brow, visibly concerned. “For the sake of your team,” he said. “For Lucas. Be careful.”

            In the bristling silence that followed, Colin’s eyes darted around them in the night, searching for anywhere to look, except for Damian’s face. Then, slowly, he started to nod. “I’ll go to your stupid thing.”

            Damian said nothing approving to this, but then added, “Lucas is taking you to the charity event tomorrow night.”

            Colin groaned. “One humiliation not enough?”

            “I want you there,” said Damian pointedly. “I have an announcement to make, and I expect that it will affect you all.”

            “And you want somebody to brag with.”

            Arrogant amusement shimmered across Damian’s face, and he said, “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            Colin held one hand up to his forehead in a mock-salute. “Yessir. My love to your family.”

            “As usual, I’m sure they will be immensely grateful.”

            With a sly little smirk, the anger still not fully melted from his face, Colin swept past Damian, obnoxiously hitting his shoulder as he passed him. Damian didn’t look around to watch Colin reenter the warehouse, Lucas anxiously asking what was said; instead, he took off into the night, continuing his normal patrol.

            He had been patrolling on his own for years now, but every night, every movement seemed like some new, exhilarating breath, something foreign and exciting that simmered just beneath his skin. Kneeling on the side of a tall building, stone gargoyles on either side of him, the muggy night air pressed against him like a steel band tightening around his forehead. His suit, although specifically designed to dissipate natural body heat, seemed extraordinarily heavy against him, weighing down his limbs and collecting warmth in his core in a low, smoldering burn. With one gloved hand, he pushed his hair back, out of where it hung languidly about his temples. He squinted out at the city, cowl lenses picking up detail from a dozen blocks away. The communicator at his ear was silent; he had turned off the usual access to police radio, favoring the silence of the city, the constant wailing of sirens, drone of cars, the occasionally sad, struggling hint of a breeze, and the perpetual cacophony of people shouting, screaming in pain and anger and whatever other emotions pulsed just beneath the surface of Gotham City, always threatening to bubble over the edge.

            Abruptly, he lost his balance, teetering over the side of the building before sinking his hands to the solid ground and finding his equilibrium again. He glanced around wildly, surprised, body tensed for battle. Although he could not quite define what it was, he had felt something like a body moving close by, like a gust of sudden, abnormal wind in the oppressive heat of the night.

            There was nothing around him.

            A chill ran up his spine, like somebody’s fingers dancing along his vertebrae, like fiery eyes piercing his clammy skin. The night went on.


	3. Pion Coiffé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pion Coiffé  
> [from French: "capped pawn"]
> 
> 1\. A certain piece with which one player tries to deliver checkmate. Agreeing to play with a capped piece provides the stronger player an extra challenge, thereby conferring upon himself a handicap in chess.  
> 2\. When the capped piece is a pawn.

            Tim was asleep when the phone rang. It was, curiously, the Wayne family phone, which meant that it was heard by everyone in the house; it was that early morning period after the Bats had come home to roost, and one of those rare moments where they all slept at the same time. Alfred was the one to answer it, with a precise, “ _Wayne household, who is this?_ ” Unwilling or unable to climb the stairs up to young Master Drake’s bedroom, he only touched a button on a separate device, and the communicator in Tim’s drowsy hand lit up and he startled awake, instantly ready for an emergency response. “Red Robin here,” he said, blinking the sleepiness out of his eyes.

            “Timothy,” said Alfred tiredly, “you have a telephone call.”

            “What?” asked Tim, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.”

            “A telephone call,” repeated Alfred. “From Miz Fox.”

            “Tam? It’s barely five AM.”

            “I shall leave the phone off its hook in the kitchen, and return to bed.”

            “OK. Yeah, I’ll be right down.”

            He sat up on the side of the bed, shoving his feet into a warm pair of slippers and heading out of the room. His pajamas were sticking to his body, sweat glistening on his brow, so he removed the slippers, leaving them in the hall, and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen. The ancient house phone, still connected to the wall by a curly wire, lay on the counter; he picked it up and put it to his ear, opening a narrow window as he did so, desperate for a breeze.

            “Tim Wayne speaking.”

            “Hey Tim, can you make it to the office?”

            “What are you doing at the office? It’s four-thirty.”

            “We need to have a meeting. Sorry it’s last minute, but now is the only time she’s available.”

            Tim took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with tapwater. “Who’s available?”

            “Sophia Moss.”

            He took a long draught of the cool water, then placed the glass on the counter. “Who the hell is Sophia Moss?”

            “Miss Moss is the one who contacted me about the…financial inconsistencies.”

            Tim blinked, breathing in deeply through his nose. “I thought our legal team was meeting with her.”

            “Her people met with our people. She personally came down from Philadelphia tonight, and she wants to talk to you.”

            “It’s early morning on a Sunday. Can’t I just have, like, a couple hours with my family?”

            “Tim,” said Tam, and there was an edge in her voice, “she says it’s about Damian.”

            He turned the glass around and around on the counter, rotating it at the base. “I know that,” replied Tim impatiently. “Or at least, I know what she thinks it’s about. But I am fully confident that my team of well-educated, experienced lawyers and advisors can handle _one_ meeting without-”

            “I asked her not to talk to them,” said Tam, cutting him off. “She has some…evidence. Some stuff. It’s pretty bad. I didn’t think you’d want anyone else to see, at least not before you do.”

            At this, Tim hesitated. He glanced outside, at the early morning gray of approaching dawn. Outside the Manor, the sounds of birds beginning their daybreak songs floated through the open window. “Fine,” he said. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be right there.”

            “Fifteen.”

            “Tam.”

            “I can only entertain her for so long, Tim. This is kind of above my pay-grade.”

            “If I give you a raise, can you deal with it? I could really use like at least two more hours of sleep.”

            “I don’t think you really understand the weight of what’s going on here.”

            “I don’t think you understand how little I’ve slept in the past two weeks.”

            “She says she’s got, like, videos. And she showed me the sales records. I had to ask her to please stop showing me this because I don’t want to say anything that could be used against him.”

            Sharply, Tim asked, “What?” When Tam didn’t reply, he stood there silently for a moment, acutely aware of his constricted heartbeat, alarm bells ringing in his head. “Against him how?”

            “She wants to take him to court.”

            “We’ve faced legal trouble before.”

            “No, _him_. Not the Foundation. We’re looking at criminal activity here. With our money, but on _his_ part.”

            “OK,” said Tim, placing the glass in the sink. “I’ll be there right away. Don’t let her talk to anyone else.”

            “I’m keeping her in your office.”

            “Make sure she doesn’t touch anything.”

            “Just get here quick.”

            “On my way. See you soon.” He replaced the phone on its receiver hanging on the wall, closed the window and locked it, then headed back up the stairs to his room. As he reached the final step, every inch of his body protesting, desperately yearning to fall back into bed, he glanced down the dim hallway and saw Damian standing there. He stood outside of his own door, arms crossed over his bare chest, wearing only thin pajama bottoms, and smirking.

            “Good morning,” called Damian softly.

            Tim grunted, going to his own door, kicking his slippers back inside. “Why are you even up?”

            “Your blathering on downstairs.”

            “Like you could hear that.”

            “I’m awake, aren’t I?”

            “I don’t think you ever sleep. Like a vampire. That’s why you’re so creepy.”

            Neither of them said anything, but Tim didn’t go into his room. Pryingly, Damian asked, “Is everything all right? Business affairs all in order?”

            “Yeah,” said Tim, nodding. “Oh, yeah, it’s just, somebody just flew in for a meeting and, you know, they always forget about time differences and stuff. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

            Damian watched him carefully, his eyes scanning up and down Tim’s body. “I’m not going to be there for preparations at the ballroom,” he said. “I expect to arrive like any other guest.”

            “That’s fine,” replied Tim. “I don’t care. I have to be there early because I’m hosting, Bruce will probably be with me.”

            “Yes.”

            “OK?”

            Damian hesitated, then nodded. He turned around and went back into his room, the door clicking shut lightly behind him. Tim didn’t move for a moment, only watched the door where Damian had been standing.

            A few minutes later he was driving through Gotham pre-dawn, speeding across Kane Bridge, the sun hovering on the cusp of the horizon. The radio in the car was on, scanning for important news. Nothing. He felt an odd, vague sense of relief; this news, whatever it was, had not broken yet, and likely would not until Tim had said whatever he had to say about it. Which he was trying to formulate, while driving and distractedly attempting to listen to the radio as well. Ultimately, it all depended on what this lawyer had to show him.

            One of the perks of running the Foundation was a personal parking spot, and the offices looked hardly open but for a few pinpricks of light in the higher windows, where Tim’s office was, and, beside that, Tam’s. The elevator brought him up quickly, and he fidgeted with his tie as he exited, glanced over into Tam’s office; she came shuffling out, walking alongside him as he headed towards his own office.

            “I gave her the company line like twenty times,” she whispered, stoic and business-like, “but she’s really tough, the regular stuff isn’t convincing her at all. She wanted to speak to you personally and I thought that was a good idea, considering he’s your brother and all, but remember don’t make any rash decisions, just take some notes and we’ll deal with this later, hopefully someone else who isn’t so personally involved will make the final call-”

            Tim stopped before his office, glancing in; a woman sat before his desk. He turned to face Tam. “What’s her name again?”

            “Sophia Moss.”

            “Sophia Moss. OK. Anything else I should know?”

            “Yeah,” said Tam, watching him hard. “She’s got a subpoena.”

            Tim’s gaze flashed to Tam, eyes widening. “She _what?_ ”

            “Don’t snap at _me_ ,” said Tam defensively. “But, yeah – financial records for the past eighteen months. I didn’t really know what to do, I told her to wait until you got here.”

            He glanced into the room once again and held back a groan. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “If you need to go get some sleep-”

            “No,” she said. “I’m fine. Let me know how it goes?”

            “Yes. Thank you, Tam.”

            She nodded anxiously. “It’s what I’m here for, Tim.” He looked into the room, and she reached out and took his hand, gave him an encouraging squeeze. “It can’t be that bad,” she said. “I know Damian, and he’s not a bad kid. Whatever it is, I doubt he did it. He’s much better than that.”

            Tim nodded, sliding his hand out of her grip and taking the handle of the door. He murmured, “I guess I’m about to find out,” and opened the door, slipping into the room. The woman sitting before his desk stood up. She wore a gray suit with a purple blouse underneath, the same color purple Stephanie used to wear, and for a second he was distracted. Then his eyes flickered back up to her face and he approached her, extending his hand. “Good morning,” he said warmly. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Miss Moss.”

            “ _Miz_ ,” she corrected him, shaking his hand and smiling at him, teeth glaringly white against her dark skin. “And it’s no trouble. I realize it’s early.”

            “Yes,” said Tim, wanting to add that it was also a Sunday and he had an event tonight and really didn’t want to get up this morning, but he didn’t say that, only took a seat before his desk and asked, “So what do you need me for, Miz Moss?”

            Her eyes boring unblinkingly into his, that smile plastered across her face, she said, “I would’ve hoped your assistant had informed you of that.”

            “Tam Fox is not my assistant,” said Tim mildly, glancing up as he turned on the computer on his desk. “She is a Foundation board member and official Executive Director of Neon Knights affairs in Gotham.”

            “Is that meant to explain why she was here to greet me this morning, and you were not?”

            Tim looked up at the woman. She smiled at him.

            “Maybe it is,” he said icily. “I’m only in Gotham for a few more days. She manages my assets here. I am fully confident she could have handled this herself.”

            “Yes,” she said, leaning in slightly, holding a file in her arms, “but you are here now. Let me guess. We want to keep this in the family?”

            “I would appreciate it very much,” said Tim, his voice biting and cold, “if you could show a little more decorum, Miz Moss, as I would expect from a professional of your caliber.”

            “Mister Wayne,” she replied instantly, without moving, her eyes still fixed on his, “I have made my career as a prosecuting attorney. I have neither the time nor the desire to be sympathetic with the kinds of people I indict, or with those who insist on protecting them.”

            Tim met the woman’s gaze distastefully. Cautiously, he said, “I don’t know exactly what it is you’re accusing my brother of, but I can tell you right now that he’s never done anything foolish enough to warrant the attention of someone like you.”

            That smile was stretched across her face as if the corners of her lips were hooked to the back of her ears, and her head shifted slightly, cocked sideways, watching him. “Someone like me?”

            Tim had to tear his eyes away from her magnetic gaze, pulling his glasses out from a drawer in his desk; he’d forgotten to put in his contacts, in the rush to get out of the house. He placed them on his face and said, “I understand you have some documents for me?”

            She nodded and held out the folder in her hands. He took it from her and opened it, leafing through the documents. “At first, I was under the impression that this was merely some kind of financial inconsistency, the likes of which you find rampant in Gotham. One would have thought, however, that the Wayne family, considering their historic concern for this city, would’ve tried to avoid these sort of,” she enunciated her next word too clearly, for emphasis, “in-con- _sis_ tencies.”

            “This Foundation’s budget is available to the public,” said Tim, scanning down the pages before him. Glancing up at her, he added, “The subpoena wasn’t necessary. We are the model for nonprofit transparency, and if you’re suggesting-”

            “This is not a suggestion,” said Ms. Moss, her voice hard and emotionless. “Practically, this is a reading of the facts.”

            Tim looked up to meet her gaze, her smiling eyes. He returned to the papers in his hands. “I see nothing that involves a criminal charge. I’ll investigate these allegations and authorize an internal assessment. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

            “Mister Wayne,” she said. “I’m not done.”

            Gritting his teeth, he didn’t look up.

            “Half a million dollars,” she began, “does not merely disappear. Everything is traceable, if you dig hard enough.”

            Something emerged in Tim’s stomach, a nauseating pit of dread. _Everything is traceable_. He laid the papers down flat on his desk, controlling his heartbeat. If she knew… no. Bruce kept track of everyone who knew. There was no way this woman could have found anything out.

            She reached across his desk and skipped a few papers, putting them aside, pointing to information on a new sheet. “An offshore account in Gibraltar, registered to Damian Wayne three years ago, when he turned eighteen. Wire transfers amounting to thousands of dollars over the past year.”

             Tim picked up the paper, scrutinizing it, pretending not to react. He knew about Damian’s Gibraltar account; as far as he understood, it was hardly Damian’s at all, opened by his mother in his name. Although Damian never talked about it, over the years Tim had gotten the vague perception that the money there was something of a gift from Talia to her son, one of the last connections Damian still had to his mother.

            He glanced at her and said, “This amounts to much more than five K.”

            “Over five-point-two million, in fact.” Her smile was prim and almost triumphant, as if she had outsmarted him. “Easy to hide a few thousand dirty dollars.”

            “This is not proof of anything,” he said, taking off his glasses, looking at her, concealing his distress. “Circumstantial, at best.”

            “Yes,” she said, her wide eyes darting back down to the papers. “Add that to the fifty thousand mysteriously disappearing into the accounts of employees handling experimental drugs at Wayne Pharmaceuticals, and the video, and that’s when things start coming together.”

            “Wayne Pharmaceuticals?” echoed Tim.

            She nodded, jabbing a slim finger into the papers before him. “Hardly even hidden,” she said, her voice just above a breath. “Your brother invested fifty thousand dollars in the prescription drug trade.” Cautiously, Tim replaced his glasses, peered down at the papers before him. “These are controlled substances,” continued Ms. Moss, her voice low. “There will be serious consequences.”

            “No,” said Tim, shaking his head. “There’s another explanation. This has got to be slander, or something, right? I will sue you right back-”

            She spread her fingers out on the paper, and slid the rest of them away from the folder, revealing a disc in a small sleeve taped to the back of the folder. “And then,” she said softly, “there’s the video.”

            Tim stared at the disc, unmoving for a moment, then took it out of the sleeve and inserted it into his computer.

            “This is just a copy,” she added. “You may try to erase or destroy it. It won’t do you any good, except perhaps to seem incriminating.”

            “What is this?” asked Tim, watching his computer screen, then glancing at her as the media player opened. She just watched him with those jackal eyes. A video started. Tim’s eyes widened in shock and he paused it immediately, heart pounding. “What the _hell_ is this?”

            “That,” replied Ms. Moss, her voice low and self-satisfied, like a purr, “is over an hour of security footage of your brother at one of Gotham City’s most notorious fetish clubs, the Pearl Collar.”

            Stunned, Tim looked back at the frozen video.

            Ms. Moss leaned forward, pointing to the image on the screen. “While the quality is not excellent and his face is obscured,” she began, “your brother’s distinct scar down the length of his spine is easily identifiable, and analytical video experts describe the man as mixed-race, approximately six feet tall, in incredible physical shape.” She paused, watching Tim with those widened eyes. “Fits your brother to a T.”

            Tim was silent. Then he asked, “How do you know about his scar?”

            She raised an elegantly arched eyebrow at him, and answered, “It isn’t difficult to find photographs of Damian Wayne in swimwear. He’s a very popular young man. Well-liked by the paparazzi, I hear.”

            “Right,” said Tim, nodding distractedly, forcing himself to look away from the screen, feeling heat rise to just beneath his skin, guilt somewhere behind his eyes. “Yeah. Spinal problems, when he was little. Surgeries, and stuff.”

            Ms. Moss watched him, then withdrew, retreating from leaning forward over Tim’s desk. “Mister Wayne,” she began patiently, pressing the tips of her fingers together. “This is no longer an internal matter with your company. This is a criminal case. I’m only speaking to you first as a courtesy, because your money is involved, and he is your brother. Embezzlement, drugs, prostitution…” she watched Tim, not quite fully smiling, but the dimples in her cheeks never seemed to fully go away; it occurred to Tim that he had not once seen her blink since they first met. Calmly, she said, “Your brother is going away for a long time.”

            “OK,” said Tim. “What you’re failing to factor in here, though, is the full weight of the Wayne family legal team.”

            She watched him, looking almost amused.

            “We have the best defense lawyers in the entire country,” he continued, pressing forward slightly. “I could get Kate Spencer out here with one phone call. You think you’ve got something: you don’t have anything. We’ll prove it.”

            “Absolutely,” she said smartly, nodding, taking back her folder. “I look forward to seeing you in court.” She stood up, taking the papers. “You can keep the video,” she said, nodding towards the computer. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if you already had one like it, what with your family being how it is.”

            “Excuse me?” said Tim, his voice cut glass, outrage bursting in his chest because he knew exactly what that tone meant. He’d heard it many times before. “Are you trying to say something, Miss Moss?”

            “ _Miz_ Moss,” she corrected, a challenge in her voice. “And no, I don’t think I am. Goodbye, Mister Wayne. I expect I’ll see you soon.”

            She opened the door, as if to leave. Tim said, “Miz Moss.”

            She paused. She turned around.

            He looked at her, across the office. “Whatever you think this is,” he said, watching her from his seat at his desk, “it isn’t.”

            Returning his gaze, she only smiled. “We’ll see,” she said wisely, and then she turned and swept out of the office.

            Tim stared at the door for a moment, watching as, beyond his walls, Tam offered to walk the woman out; she declined, and Tam hovered outside his office. Tim checked to make sure the sound was off on his computer, then played the video again, transfixed by the sheer impossibility of the scene before him. Tam knocked, then opened the door. “Is everything OK?” she asked.

            Nodding, Tim didn’t look up at her. After a second, he realized what he was doing and snapped back to reality, and said, “No.” He tore his eyes from the screen, but as he watched Tam, he could see the video playing in the corner of his eye, the lascivious writhing and thrusting and pulsing tainting his office, making him feel indecent and uncomfortably warm. “No, Tam,” he said. “We have a problem.”


	4. Exhibition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhibition
> 
> A contest of one or more games played for the purpose of public entertainment, as opposed to a match or tournament. An exhibition may pit two masters against each other, in which case chess clocks are normally used and the contest is quite serious.

             Tim stood in the mostly-decorated ballroom, the last of the preparations for the gala being tended to around him. “Anyway,” he said, surveying the room, making sure everything was in order, “I wasn’t really sure what else to tell her. She didn’t look like the kind of lawyer who’d take money in exchange for-”

            “We don’t do that, in any case,” said Bruce, sitting at one of the tables, leaning thoughtfully back.

            “We actually _do_ do that,” countered Dick, his mouth full of crab puffs, the taster plate half-empty before him. “I can’t tell you how many reporters we’ve gotten off my ass with a few under-the-table-”

            “Never with the law,” said Bruce, cutting Dick off. “These allegations deserve attention. It would be problematic for us to ignore them.”

            “Yeah, but,” began Tim, “I mean, you know me, I don’t even _like_ Damian all that much, but even I know that there’s no way he could have done this.”

            “Then we have nothing to fear,” answered Bruce evenly. “We’ll have Barbara find where the money actually went, and the truth will come out in court.”

             Uneasily, Tim glanced around, then took a seat next to Bruce, leaning in towards him and lowering his voice. “There was a video, too,” he said. “I don’t even want to…” he hesitated, “If nothing else, the media’s going to have a field day.”

            “What kind of video?” asked Bruce, and Tim could detect that hint of rigidity in his expression that he got whenever their extracurricular activities were threatened.

            “It’s not that,” he said, to assuage Bruce’s concern. “It’s…kind of worse.”

            Bruce and Dick exchanged grim looks.

            “I’m having it examined for authenticity right now,” Tim continued, “but there’s this video of Damian at this club, it’s like…” he hesitated, “like a fetish club type thing? And it’s…pretty graphic.”

            Neither Bruce nor Dick said anything for a moment, then Dick let out a long, defeated sigh and leaned back in his seat. Bruce turned his head slightly towards Dick and asked, “Would this be-?”

            Before Bruce even finished, Dick answered, “Could be, yeah.” Addressing Tim, he asked, “Did you watch the video?”

            Tim nodded, shrugged. “She showed it to me, a little.”

            “Are they wearing masks?”

            Tim stared at Dick. “How do you know that?”

            “Well,” said Dick, shaking his head, “shit.”

            Bruce said, “A few years ago, Damian was in a difficult place, emotionally-”

            “He went on a bender,” said Dick bluntly. “We covered it all up pretty well, but only because he’s not stupid and he kept it all relatively private.”

            Drained and, strangely, tremendously disappointed, Tim asked weakly, “So the video’s _not_ a fake?”

            “No,” answered Bruce, his expression bleak. “But it is from several years ago.”

            “Yeah,” added Dick. “He’s a month or so shy of eighteen in it, too, which technically means that I’m pretty sure we can bust her for possession of child pornography.”

            “This is not a joke,” said Bruce.

            “I’m not joking,” countered Dick. “He was a minor then, I don’t think it’s admissible evidence in court.”

            “Prostitution is illegal whether or not you’re eighteen,” reminded Tim.

            “But it has nothing to do with the case,” insisted Dick. “They’re talking about embezzling funds, that doesn’t have anything to do with-”

            “That doesn’t matter,” said Bruce pensively. “They’ll use anything they can find to incriminate him.”

            All three of them were silent for a while. And then, troubled, Dick asked, “Should we be worried about this? How deep do you think it’s going to go?”

            “I couldn’t say,” replied Bruce. “I’ll look into it.”

            “I’ll talk to Babs tonight,” offered Dick. “She’s coming, right?”

            “Yeah,” said Tim, still disturbed. “Yeah, actually, the press team should be getting here any minute.” He stood up. “Are you still going to make that announcement tonight, Bruce?”

            “Yes,” said Bruce, narrowing his eyes slightly, staring right through Tim in intense thought. “I would not take that from him.”

            “But if this is going to come out-”

            “-then he will have the full force of Wayne Enterprises behind him,” finished Bruce smoothly, with a finality that Tim had long ago learned not to question. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning. Let him have this victory tonight.”

            Tim hesitated, then nodded. Dick looked at the crab puffs unhappily, then put another into his mouth. “He’s a good kid,” murmured Dick, through the food in his mouth. “Anyone who can’t see that is fooling themselves.” Bruce didn’t glance up, and a silence hung between the three of them.

            Guests began to trickle in soon, and it was noticeably into the night, ballroom nearly full, when a limousine rolled up at the entrance, and a palpable, electrical thrill ran through the paparazzi, anticipating the inevitable arrival.

            Inside the limo, Damian watched the woman across from him with his dark, piercing eyes. She was staring out the window, her lips pressed into a thin line, her brow creased in a worried frown. His eyes flickering across her face, he reached out and took her hand, resting on the seat beside her, and leaned forward to meet her gaze. “Are you ready?” he asked gently.

            She glanced at him, and nodded.

            He watched her, his eyes boring into hers. “Are you sure?” he pressed. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything you’re not-”

            “Damian,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “I’m just not used to being in the spotlight, is all. But I don’t care. I’m excited for tonight.”

            Neither of them moved for a second, but he still stared into her eyes hungrily. “Tonight,” he echoed. “And for…”

            Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear, “And for the rest of our lives.” Grinning, she pulled away, meeting his gaze. “Together.”

            The car stopped before the glamorous, exaggerated red carpet leading into the ballroom, and someone opened the door; Damian exited first, then held his hand out for Ellen to take, and helped her out of the car, then put his arm around her waist firmly, smirking smugly out at the flashing cameras before them. Despite his concerns, from the moment Ellen stepped out of the car she had a beautiful smile on her face, eyes wide and open against the bright lights. A warmth burst in his chest, admiration for her brimming over the chambers of his heart.

            Questions were thrown at them from all sides, but Damian merely held up his hand lazily, rebuffing the advances of the reporters, and they were escorted into the ballroom by a host of bodyguards, welcomed at the door by a woman with a guest list. Once they slipped inside and away from the trilling voices of the reporters, he leaned in and murmured, “You’re a natural at this.”

            A flush rising to her cheeks, she glanced at him with a coy little grin. “I’ve learned from the best,” she said, her fingers dancing along his jacket, near his lower back, “Mister Wayne.”

            Someone called, “Damian! Damian!” and they looked up; Damian was unable to keep back a sly smirk as his father approached them, holding a glass of what looked like champagne in his hand, although it could just have easily been sparkling cider, or Seven-Up. “Damian,” said Bruce, finally reaching them, beaming at the both of them. “So glad to see you’re here. Fashionably late, hmm?”

            “As always, Father,” responded Damian, with a little bow of his head.

            “And Miss Nayar,” said Bruce, turning to Ellen, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “What a pleasure. You look beautiful.”

            With a coquettish giggle, the insincerity of which was so obvious that Damian nearly laughed, Ellen replied, “Thank you,” then glanced conspiratorially at Damian, adding, “Mister Wayne.”

            “Please,” he said, waving his hand nonchalantly, “I’ve told you before, call me Bruce. Ah, yes, Damian!” he continued, as another man approached them. “Look who’s here!”

            This time when Damian grinned, it was in earnest, with no hint of irony or mockery. He greeted the other man with a short embrace, saying, “Dick. It’s good to see you here.”

            “Yeah,” replied Dick, looking pleased, holding onto Damian’s shoulder affectionately. “Been too long, huh?”

            “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” Bruce said, then added, “and lady,” nodding towards Ellen, “I think Tim could use my assistance with some guests whose names he doesn’t know. _Au revior_!”

            “Father,” called Damian, as Bruce began to slip away; he paused, their gazes locking. “You’ll let me know when…?”

            “Yes,” said Bruce, nodding. “Yes, of course. Patience, boy, you’ll get your recognition soon enough.” He disappeared into the crowd, leaving the three of them.

            Dick extended his hand to Ellen, which she graciously took. “Hello, Ellen,” he said. “I realize we’ve only met a few times, which I have to apologize for. You are absolutely stunning tonight.”

            “That’s very kind of you to say, Mister Grayson,” she replied.

            “It’s true,” he said honestly. “I’m sorry to ask this, but could I borrow my brother for a moment? He and I need to have a conversation.”

            “Of course,” said Ellen, and Damian leaned in towards her again; they shared a simple, chaste kiss on the lips and he nodded in another direction, murmuring, “There’s Colin and Lucas. Thank them for coming from me, I’ll be with you in a moment.” She nodded, bade farewell to the two of them, and left, threading through the crowd to where Colin and Lucas stood.

            Dick put an arm around Damian’s shoulders, steering him towards one of the hallways adjacent to the ballroom, much less crowded. “We have to talk,” he said.

            “Yes,” replied Damian. “I gathered as much. About what?”

            “Couple things,” answered Dick. “Before I even get started, have you laundered any money lately?”

            “Have I _what?_ ”

            “No? OK, good, didn’t think so.” He stopped, the two of them hovering in a small enclave in the hall, slightly separated from the rest of the crowd, but he kept his hands on Damian’s shoulders, almost protectively. “Look, you’re in trouble.”

            “With whom?” asked Damian, frowning, meeting Dick’s gaze carefully.

            “I don’t know yet,” answered Dick. “Some lawyer’s digging into your business at Neon Knights.”

            Damian put his hands to Dick’s, gently prying them from his shoulders. “I see,” he said. “And I’ve been accused of money-laundering?”

            “And embezzlement, of course,” said Dick. “And fraud.” He paused, and then he added, “And prostitution.”

            Eyebrows shooting upwards, Damian repeated, “Prostitution?”

            “Yeah,” sighed Dick, taking his hands off Damian. “That thing from a couple years ago? Yeah. There’s a video.”

            Damian’s eyes widened slightly, and Dick could detect the stricken look on his face, however controlled. “A video?” he echoed. “That’s not possible. There’s strict confidentiality-”

            “Yeah, but,” said Dick fairly, “it’s a fetish club, Damian, what did you expect?”

            For a moment, Damian said nothing. And then: “Technically they have no grounds for a prostitution charge.”

            Dick blinked at him. “What?”

            “It’s not a _brothel_ ,” began Damian, but Dick cut him off.

            “OK, OK, OK,” he said, holding up his hands to silence Damian. “I don’t even want to hear this, oh my God. Just watch yourself. OK? They’re going to start digging pretty seriously anytime now, and if you need to take any extra precautions – and I’m not talking just you. Keep Ellen and the gang on their toes as well.”

            “Fine,” said Damian coolly. “Thank you for letting me know.”

            “You’re welcome. Bruce’ll probably talk to you about it tomorrow.”

            “Not tonight?”

            “Not in the same breath as your official induction into the company, no.”

            Damian watched Dick. “He’s not cancelling the announcement?”

            “No,” replied Dick. “He wouldn’t. I know you think this is all for you, but it means a lot more to him than you give him credit for.”

            There was a slightly awkward silence.

            And then Dick said, “I’m going to go try to flirt with Babs now, so you can go back to your li’l gang and talk about how much disdain you all have for these events. Enjoy your night, Damian, because it’s going to get pretty tough really damn soon.”

            At Damian’s silent nod, Dick left, leaving him there alone. For a moment, he didn’t move, and then he ambled back into the ballroom, straightening his bowtie. Across the room, he could see Colin’s bright shock of orange hair standing out amongst the dark heads, and just as he was about to head that way, a strangely familiar voice called his name. He turned around, eyes instantly narrowed in suspicion and disbelief.

            “ _Well_ ,” said the woman, slinking up to him in a tight black dress, bright pink lips tugged back in a smile, “if it isn’t young Mister Damian Wayne.”

            For a moment, Damian regarded her in silence, and then he said, “I almost didn’t recognize you, for the hair.”

            “Do you like it?” she asked, sweeping pastel pink bangs out of face. “My daddy says it suits me.”

            Glancing around warily, Damian asked, “What are you doing here, Lian?”

            Lian Harper watched him with dark eyes hooded with a smoky outline, then answered, her voice hard: “Dick’s been adding my father to Wayne Enterprises guest lists for years. And this isn’t _that_ private; STAR Labs have some representatives here. So I thought I’d come.”

            Damian watched her. “You don’t represent STAR Labs.”

            “No,” agreed Lian, “but my dad does.” She took his arm, tugging him towards the bar. “Come here. What’ll you have?”

            “I don’t drink,” replied Damian, almost coldly.

            “That’s a lie,” she said. “I’ve _seen_ you drink.” She said something to the bartender, who pulled out two glasses, and then she turned her back to the counter, facing out at the rest of the people in the ballroom. She let out a low whistle. “Quite the crowd. Who knew Gotham’s elite were so charitable?”  
            While she continued to survey the room, Damian only stared at her. “Lian,” he said, repeating her name, “what do you want?”

            “Nothing,” she replied; the bartender handed her two small crystal glasses containing some deep amber liquid. “Catch up, maybe. See you again. Solidify my emerging image as an airheaded socialite. Should be easier, now my head is actually the color of cotton candy and lollipops.” She sipped the drink, then lowered it, gently rocking her hand, swirling the liquid in the crystal glass. “She’s pretty,” she remarked.

            Damian only watched her, then brought the glass to his lips as well, tilting it back, savoring the burn at the back of his throat. “Who is?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

            “Your date,” said Lian, without looking at him, eyes still fixed on the crowd. “Ellen. Right? Ellen Nayar.”

            “Yes.”

            Leaning against the bar, she took another sip of her drink. Trying to shake off the vague sensation of self-consciousness, Damian followed her gaze, but could not easily find Ellen in the crowd, although Lian’s eyes seemed transfixed on something. “Y’know,” she began, “Connor trained her.”

            Cautiously nodding, looking back at Lian, Damian replied, “I did know that. She was already skilled in self-defense when I met her. He taught her well.”

            “I’ll pass that along,” said Lian, her eyes finally wandering from the crowd, fixing on Damian’s face. “But I bet you were the one who taught her how to break faces. Right?”

            “Not me specifically, not entirely, at least,” replied Damian indifferently, scanning the crowd, searching for Ellen and the others, “but my people, I suppose you could say.”

            Lian took the glass out of his hand and placed it and her own on the bar, then slid her hand around his arm again and asked, “Care for a dance?” Without so much as nodding, he followed her lead out onto the floor. Damian didn’t meet her gaze but peered over her shoulder, furtively looking for his date; Lian followed his lead, lowering her voice. “I love her dress,” she said, and the malice in her voice was identifiably lighthearted, “with the gloves and everything. Very Hepburn.” She gave a pointed look at her left hand, drumming her fingers on his shoulder. “Maybe a little,” she straightened her fingers, “ _Breakfast at_ …” she lifted her left hand right before Damian’s face, wiggling her ring finger knowingly, “ _Tiffany’s_?”

            Damian stared at her. Then he glanced back into the crowd, his touch at her waist becoming firmer, more controlled. Leaning in, his lips by her ear, he murmured, “How could you tell?”

            “Are you kidding?” she replied, the smirk on her face devious but not quite spiteful. “I can spot a ring on a woman’s finger a mile away, gloved or not. Besides, it’s not as if it’s unobtrusive, like, at all.” She laughed a little and replaced her hand on his shoulder, fingers gently brushing against his neck, and said faux-seriously, “You are many things, Damian, but modest has never been one of them.”

            He glanced down at her hand on his shoulder in distaste. Vaguely irritated, he said, “I think I take offense at that,” but she just laughed and continued.

            “Congratulations,” she said, dropping her vindictive tone and sounding almost wistful. “Personally I always thought you and that redhead were gonna be endgame, but-”

            He said her name, a quiet reprimand, something like disappointment in his voice. “Lian.”

            “I didn’t mean _that_ redhead,” she said, almost indignantly. “The, uh, the cute one here. The brooding young fellow who ostensibly came here with a date who definitely isn’t you.”

            Their feet moving in perfect unison, he drew slightly back from her. “Colin?”

            “That’s the one.”

            For a moment, he said nothing. Then he asked, “How do you know about me and him?”

            She shrugged. “I have contacts here,” she answered. “I may have been on a mission – well, several missions – abroad for the past couple years, but I have people who tell me things.”

            “People who tell you things about me?”

            “Yep.”

            “You mean,” he said, and a hint of amusement entered the air between them; he glanced up and around them, a self-satisfied little smirk on his face, “Dick tells your father details about my personal life, which your father then relays to you.”

            She returned the grin. “Pretty much,” she said. “It’s a good system. It works.”

            “Is that how you knew about Ellen?”

            “Not the engagement, no,” she replied. “I found out about that tonight, when you walked in the door and there was an obnoxious lump on her ring finger under her left glove.” They swayed together, in tune with the music. She watched him carefully, and he did not meet her gaze. “Are you announcing it tonight?”

            “Perhaps,” he said. “You’ll have to stay to find out.”

            “Ah, Mister Wayne,” she sighed in mock-defeat. “And I was so looking forward to slipping out the back door and going clubbing.”

            “Feel free to do so,” replied Damian. “It is good to see you again, Lian, I won’t deny that, but…” he hesitated. Their dancing slowed considerably.

            Her smoky eyes were fixed on his. “But?”

            “But I don’t want you here,” he said frankly. “My life is good now because it is simple. You are complicated. Everything you will bring with you is complicated.”

            “What does that mean?” she asked fiercely, her eyes flashing, but she knew exactly who it was he was talking about. They danced in silence for a moment.

            Then he continued lowly, “You don’t belong here. You don’t belong in my world, in uniform or not.”

            “And you think _they_ do?” she asked just as quietly. “You think your little fiancée belongs here? Your new team is not from _your_ world, Damian. Nobody is.”

            He broke away from her, heading off the dance floor. She followed. “That doesn’t matter,” he said, and his voice was quiet but brutal. “I love them. I want them here, so they have a place.”

            This stung Lian; she stared at him, eyes narrowed, tongue tucked disagreeably between her teeth. “I used to know you,” she said, her voice soft.

            “You did,” he agreed, searching through the crowd. “You also once tried to kill me.”

            “Damian.”

            “Lian.”

            They looked at each other.

            Then she shook her head, pulling away from him. “Fine,” she said coolly. “I didn’t come here just for you. There’s an open bar, I’m not leaving ‘til I’m wasted.”

            He watched her, but said nothing.

            She took his wrist, squeezed it, and then put her lips beside his cheek, one side, then the other. He hardly responded, and she let him go. She paused, then, looking into his eyes, she said, “I need money. I have a lead concerning Iris, but I can’t follow it if I don’t have the means.”

            “Fine,” said Damian, looking away from her. “I’ll wire you some tonight.”

            She nodded, her eyes slowly dragging up and down his entire body. And then she pulled away, turning slightly, catching his gaze and peering at him, fascinated. “’Bye,” she said, anti-climactically, and then she slipped back into the crowd. Damian watched her go.

            A few moments later, he joined Ellen and the others; she was laughing with Lucas, while Colin stood beside them, looking around glumly. “I’m glad you could come,” he said, addressing the two of them, although really he was talking to Colin, who clearly didn’t want to be there. “Do you know if-”

            His question was cut off by an excited squeal, and someone wrapping their arms around him from behind. After a moment of initial surprise, he smiled as the woman who’d hugged him appeared at his side, grinning. “You look so nice!” said Nell, looking Damian up and down appreciatively, and then she reached over and hugged Ellen. “And your dress is amazing! But oh my gosh, I had no idea you boys would clean up so nicely. I mean, _wow_ , right?” She fanned herself dramatically, beaming at them.

            “Good,” said Damian, “you received my invitation.” She nodded.

            “I asked my mom to come too, but she’s busy with work,” she replied. “Jordan and Niloufar got the invite too, but Jordan didn’t want to come, so Niloufar’s hanging out with her. Thanks for inviting me, though! What a party!” She laughed, and it was easy to laugh with her; she hung closely to Damian, talking excitedly, and even Colin, so acutely disinterested, couldn’t help but be affected by her enthusiasm.

            The night wore on; by nature of his renown, Damian had to greet and interact with a number of socialites and business associates, but he kept as much as possible to his small group. Although most of them – with the exception of Lucas, that is – were not born into a life of wealth and refinement, they fit flawlessly into the social culture where necessary, and where they did not, they were better for it.

            As it got later, Dick eventually found his way through the crowd again, coming upon Damian and tapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, you,” he said. “Get yourself a glass of bubbly, Bruce has a toast he wants to make.” Damian nodded, and although he did not smile, there was a pleased sort of pride in his eyes. “Congrats, again,” said Dick. “You deserve this, man.”

            Dick began to step away, but Damian reached out and took hold of his arm. “Come with me,” he said. “I’d like to have you by my side.”

            Eyes on Damian’s hand on his arm, then glancing up at Damian’s face, Dick made a noncommittal noise. “It’s a business thing,” he said, “and people are going to be taking pictures and stuff. You know I don’t like to be in pictures. Or business things.”

            Damian watched him for a moment, then relented and nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

            “I’ll hang back here and cheer really loud.”

            A flash of amusement, a grin tugging at the corner of Damian’s lips. “Thank you, Dick.”

            “Anytime.”

            A few moments later, glass in hand, Damian met his father at the foot of the large marble stairway at the head of the room. Surveying the room, Bruce murmured, “Having fun?”

            “Something resembling it, yes,” answered Damian, glancing to where Ellen and the others stood, laughing at a story which Nell was animatedly recounting. “And you?”

            “You know how I adore these social engagements,” said Bruce lowly, and they exchanged glances, sharing identical smirks. And then Bruce put a hand on Damian’s shoulder and nodded towards the stairwell. “Come.”

            Standing a quarter of the way up the stairs, Damian a few steps below him, Bruce cleared his throat, then called loudly to get the attention of the room; the buzz of conversation quieted, as did the music, and Bruce began.

            “Thank you, everyone,” he said, “for coming out tonight to support the Neon Knights Foundation. The entire Wayne family is very grateful. Another thank you to one of our own – my son Tim, on whose work this entire Foundation relies. Thank you, Tim.” There was a smattering of applause. Tim, standing at the forefront of the crowd, raised his glass to Bruce and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. Bruce continued, “And now I’d like to make a special announcement, and propose a toast to a man who has been an invaluable member of the Neon Knights Foundation, but who must unfortunately take his leave in the coming months, due to his new position at Wayne Enterprises.” Bruce smiled at his son, and raised his glass. “Our new Director of Finance, and my youngest son – Damian Wayne, everyone.”

            Applause broke out throughout the room, although Damian didn’t hear Dick’s cheers. Bruce took of a sip of his champagne then descended the steps, taking Damian’s arm, then sharing a short embrace with his son; others quickly appeared, congratulating him, and even Tim shook his hand and gave him a rare nod of approval.

            In the back of the room, Dick grinned, pride swelling in his chest for Damian. Distracted by a commotion behind him, he looked away from Damian, turning around. The woman with the guest list who usually attended the door was trailing someone into the ballroom, almost pleading with them. Behind them came several others, and a pulsing jolt went through Dick’s body as he realized what was happening.

            Near the staircase, the crowd began to lessen, and Damian excused himself, going back to where Ellen at the others stood. Ellen kissed him on the lips, and Nell hugged him and told him congratulations, and then Colin, bored, said, “That’s great and all, but everybody pretty much knew it already. Why’d we have to come to a stupid party if _that_ was your big announcement?”

            “Because,” said Damian, holding Ellen’s hand, “it’s not.”

            With an uncharacteristic grin, he pulled Ellen up onto the staircase with him, and then, as his father had done, he called for attention of the room. “I would like to propose another toast,” he said loudly, his eyes on Ellen, standing blushingly beside him. “To my beautiful partner, Ellen Nayar,” he said, “whose support is essential in my success, and whose love is essential in my life.” He reached out and put his arm around her waist, drawing her close, and called, “So, a toast – to the woman of my dreams, and the woman who has just recently so graciously agreed to become my-”

            He broke off sharply, the joy instantly melting from his face, his gaze snapping to the stairs below him, where a woman was holding a badge. “Mister Wayne,” she said, quiet enough that it didn’t ring out in the ballroom, everyone’s attention still focused on him. Dick was beside the police officer, eyes wide, slightly frantic.

            “Damian,” he began, and the officer spoke over him.

            “Mister Wayne,” she repeated, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

            Staring at the policewoman, Damian asked bluntly, “Excuse me?”

            Bruce stepped forward. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, his voice low, and Dick said, desperately, “Damian, please-”

            “What is this about?” asked Damian, as the woman repeated, “Mister Wayne, if you’ll just step over here for a moment-”

            “Why?” asked Damian, loud enough that he drowned out the other murmuring voices around him. The officer looked at him stonily; Dick glanced around worriedly, and Damian, for the first time, noticed the other officers in the crowd.

            The woman before him took a pair of handcuffs from her belt and said, “Damian Wayne, you are under arrest for embezzlement, fraud, and suspected-”

            “ _What?_ ” asked Damian, gaping at her.

            “-and solicitation for prostitution,” she finished, holding the handcuffs. “Sir, please turn around.”

            “ _What?_ ” repeated Damian, visibly outraged.

            “Sir, please-”

            “Damian,” said Bruce. Damian didn’t move, staring at the officer.

            Ellen put her hands tightly on his arm. “I don’t care,” she whispered. “I don’t care what this is, do what they say. You don’t have a choice right now.”

            He didn’t move for a second, and then he let out a quiet oath, and turned around; the officer handcuffed him and then led him down the steps. “You have the right to remain silent,” said the officer, one hand on Damian’s cuffed wrists, the other pressed against his back. “Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law…”

            Bruce instantly followed behind the police. The silence in the room seemed to break, and conversation rippled throughout, a chaotic clamor rising. Dick, his face pale, looked up and met Ellen’s gaze, then she swept past him, following Bruce.

            “What’s happening?” asked Ellen breathlessly, stumbling slightly in her heeled shoes, but catching up with Bruce. “What did he do?”

            “It’s business-related,” muttered Bruce, never taking his eyes off Damian as they led him out of the hall, towards the police cars. “Baseless. Absolutely baseless.”

            She did not speak, standing there beside Bruce, but as they opened the door of a police car before him, Damian looked back at her. They tried to lower him into the car, and he shook them off, meeting her gaze with a magnetic, unyielding force. An officer had to repeat, “Sir, please step into the car,” and was met with an angry, glaring look from Damian, finally tearing his gaze away from Ellen. Swiveling around to watch her again, Damian slipped into the car, never taking his eyes off Ellen, watching her intensely. The door closed, and his face was obscured by the darkened glass.

            As the car drove away, a crowd spilled out of the ballroom, hovering before the street. Nell, Colin and Lucas, all pale with shock and rage, appeared beside Ellen, Nell reaching out to hold her, and Dick found Bruce, still staring harshly out at the street, where the car had disappeared. “Tim’s on damage control,” he murmured, above the sounds of scandalized conversation, and Nell’s loud, furious ranting. “I’ll come with you.”

            Bruce said nothing.

            “Ah,” said a voice, breaking through the din. “Mister Wayne.”

            Bruce’s eyes slid from the street, locking on a woman approaching them triumphantly, in her prim gray-and-purple business wear.

            “What a pleasure it is to meet the most powerful man in Gotham,” she said pleasantly, smiling at him. Bruce did not move. Her sickly sweet smile did not waver as she said, softly, “And what an honor it will be to prosecute his son in court.”

            She smiled. Her eyes slipped from Bruce to the woman beside him.

            “And Miss Nayar,” she continued. “Congratulations.” She watched Ellen gracefully, and Ellen said nothing in reply, only met her gaze with a steely indifference. “I would advise you to cooperate with the law as fully as possible,” said Sophia Moss. “There’s a video starring your new fiancé I think you’d very much like to see.”

            Looking pleased with herself, she nodded to both Ellen and Bruce, then turned to leave. A few steps away, she paused and glanced back at them.

            “Oh, and,” she began.

            Her face nearly split with her wide, white smile.

            “Good luck,” she said, and she turned and walked briskly away, without looking back.


	5. Pseudo-sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sham sacrifice  
> (also called pseudo-sacrifice)
> 
> An offer of material which is made at no risk, as acceptance would lead to the gain of equal or greater material or checkmate. This is in contrast to a true sacrifice in which the compensation is less tangible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter strongly features the Streets of Gotham 2 team. Learn more about them here: http://lusilly.tumblr.com/tagged/sog2

            The media crushed into them instantly, shouting questions, demanding statements; Bruce didn’t even glance around, only strode forward towards Ellen, gently touching her elbow while Dick stayed back, fending off the reporters and photographers. Like a life-raft in the vast ocean, a car slid up, and Bruce opened the door for Ellen to duck inside. Dick followed him into the car, then forced the door shut.

            Instantly, there was silence. Ellen sat with her back facing the driver, staring out wearily at the crowd. Across from her, watching the woman's unchanging expression as the car departed, Dick and Bruce sat beside each other.

            “I presume he’ll be held at the police station, Master Bruce,” said Alfred, driving. “Certainly not for very long.”

            “I wouldn’t advise you to come to the station with us,” said Bruce, his eyes fixed on Ellen. “Would you like us to take you home, or…?”

            She glanced away from the window, meeting his gaze. “Wayne Tower, if you can,” she said, voice steady and calm. "The Bunker."

            His eyes unmoving, Bruce said nothing to that; Dick glanced at him.

            “If,” she continued, glancing back at Alfred, “it’s possible to go down on the entrance through the tunnel on Third, that’d be convenient.”

            Without saying anything, Bruce didn’t quite look away from her, but neither Ellen nor Dick got the impression he was really seeing her. His voice hushed, Dick leaned in and asked, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to go on patrol tonight? I don’t think Damian would mind if you waited until you heard back from him.” He smiled and tried to laugh slightly at that. It didn’t take.

            She slipped off the long silk glove on her right hand and extracted a phone from her purse, typing in numbers. “I have work to do, anyway,” she said. “I don’t doubt he’ll appreciate it getting done.”

            Dick watched her, suddenly so business-like, different from her coy, beaming nature in the ballroom. Despite himself, she kind of reminded him of Bruce.

            He leaned forward again, watching her. And then he said, “Ellen?”

            She glanced up, pausing in whatever task she was completing, a low, steady burn behind her dark eyes, the scar on her face slitting an unnatural white streak through her gaze.

            He asked, “May I see the ring?”

            For a moment, she didn’t move. And then her face broke into a reluctant smile, and she laid the phone in her lap, tugging off her left glove and offering him her hand. Taking it gently, he inspected the ring. Three large stones – real diamonds, he was sure – mounted into a platinum diamond-encrusted band. “Yeah,” he said. “That looks like him.”

            “I told him it was too much,” she replied, taking her hand back, looking at the ring fondly. “He wouldn’t listen. As always.”

            The car slid through the city streets, entering the financial district. Skyscrapers towered above them as they approached the Wayne Foundation Tower, windows mostly dark. The streetlights illuminated the area brightly, but dampened through the dark, tinted windows of the car. Dick said, “When did he ask you?”

            Taking the phone in her hands again, she shrugged. “A while ago,” she admitted. “He wanted a big announcement, like this. I thought it’d be best to hit the ground running, in terms of media involvement. So.” She flashed a smile at Dick, but he couldn’t tell its sincerity. “Now we’re here.”

            “Yeah,” said Dick; he thought about laughing again, then decided against it. “Sorry about that.”

            There was an acutely uncomfortable silence. Or maybe it was only Dick who felt uncomfortable: Bruce still stared straight ahead, right through Ellen, and Ellen was working on her small device, no doubt organizing the mission for the night with her teammates. The car jolted into the hidden tunnel, and a few minutes later, shuddered to a stop. “Thank you,” said Ellen earnestly, nodding towards Bruce specifically, and then she gathered her things, draped her long gloves across her arm, and exited the car.

            Before she closed the door behind her, Bruce called her name. “Ellen.”

            She paused, then leant against the door, stooping down slightly to catch his gaze. “Yes, Mister Wayne?”

            They didn’t move for a moment, and Dick thought there had to be some secret, unidentifiable connection running between them for the intensity of their gazes, the sudden electrified feeling in the air. Bruce said, “Welcome to the family.”

            At this, Ellen’s whole demeanor seemed to change. Her eyes lit up, lips tugged back in a sly smile, and her back straightened with what could have been pride. She bowed her head in acknowledgement of his comment. “Thank you,” she said, and she closed the door, heading through the security checks into the Bunker.

            As the car found its way back out onto the streets, there was silence for a few moments. And then Dick said pointedly, “Well, I can see why he likes her.”

            Damian was being held in the police station, unceremoniously handcuffed to a desk. “Can I get a coffee or something?” he asked, fully aware of how irritating he sounded. “White collar crime, isn’t this the kind where I get a nice cappuccino and biscotti while we wait for my lawyers?”

            “Mister Wayne,” said the detective at whose desk he was waiting, “while we wait for your lawyers, you should probably shut the hell up.”

            Glancing at her, he replied, “Inspector Montoya, if I thought there was anything I could possibly say to incriminate myself, I would be silent. But seeing as this must be some huge misunderstanding-”

            “Grand jury doesn’t seem to think so,” said another voice, approaching him. “There’s quite a case against you, kid.”

            Damian smiled tightly at her, hoping she caught the venom in his eyes. “Commissioner Sawyer,” he said. “Always a pleasure.”

            “Yeah, sure,” she replied, taking some paperwork from Detective Montoya. “Hopefully this won’t take long, and we can manage it kind of quiet. As long as you cooperate-”

            “Cooperation,” hummed Damian elegantly, “is practically my middle name.”

            Renee Montoya and Maggie Sawyer just watched him, eyes hard and thoughtful. “Right,” said the Commissioner. “Just hold tight. We’ll get you out of here and back to the Missus soon.”

            “Excuse me,” called Damian, as the Commissioner began to walk away. “We’re not married yet,” he called, “and when we are, by the way, I think she’ll prefer  _Miz_  to – to – Commissioner-”

            He fell silent. At the desk beside him, Montoya typed something into her computer, eyes scanning over the information before her. Hands still cuffed to the desk, he shook his head back to get a few stray strands of hair out of his eyes, then added, “My father will be here soon.”

            Without looking up, Inspector Montoya answered, “I bet he will be, Mister Wayne,” and Damian fell glumly silent.

            In the bunker beneath Wayne Tower, Ellen brushed her hair impatiently, attempting to braid it without the aid of a mirror. “No, I don’t think it’s that important,” she answered, addressing the face on the computer screen. “I’m sure it’s something meant to attack his family, which doesn’t bother me. It’s not as if they haven’t had their fair share of scandal over the years.”

            “Yeah,” said Jordan, nodding from behind the girl on screen. “Remember all that stuff they said about the butler a while ago?” She laughed. “No wonder they’re so fucked up.”

            The girl on the video seemed worried, but unable to admit it. “You won’t come under fire, though, will you?” she asked. “If he’s accused – and considering how close you are-”

            “No,” said Ellen firmly, swinging her long braid back. “I don’t think it’ll even get that far. You watch, his father will get it all worked out in a couple of days.”

            There was a  _shhh_ ing sound as the door opened, and three others spilled into the Bunker. Colin had already shed his jacket and was headed straight for the lockers when Ellen called, “Hold on.”

            He stopped. Breathless, and still wearing her long, shimmery gown, Nell began, "Can you believe this? Talk about bad timing, right?" Without pausing, she continued, "Do you know what's happening, Ellen? Where even is he, are they taking him to prison?”

            “He goes to trial first,” said Lucas timidly. “If it even goes that far.”

            “If? So he might not even be in trouble at all?”

            “I don’t know,” said Lucas, considering this. “When my mom went to prison, it took a while, but-”

            Ellen crossed the room, standing before Colin. He met her gaze with defiant eyes. “Where are you going?” she asked quietly, ignoring the others. He said nothing, but he didn’t have to; the look in his eyes said it all. Placing one hand on his arm, she looked back at Lucas and Nell, who were engaged in rapid conversation. Leaning in to put her lips by Colin's ear, she muttered, “This isn’t really your area of expertise.”

            Colin pulled away from her sharply. “I can help,” he said brusquely.

            “Yeah?” asked Ellen, as Colin took a step away. “And what do you know about embezzlement and fraud? I know you want to help, but you'd be a lot more useful if you just stick to hitting things.”

            Before Ellen had time to react, Colin lashed out and pushed her, hard, by the shoulders. Instantly Lucas was by his side, holding onto Colin’s shoulder. Nell went to Ellen, who hadn’t fallen, but stumbled backwards slightly. None of them said anything.

            And then Ellen straightened up and said, her voice hard: “He doesn’t want you out there, Colin. Plus with your particular skill set, you could make things worse for him.”

            “It’s bullshit,” spat Colin, but his vehemence had dissipated. “Kid’s never committed a crime in his life.”

            “Except for, you know,” offered Nell, “breaking and entering, obstruction of the law, like, a thousand cases of assault…”

            “Regardless,” said Ellen, “he’ll be fine, and it’s not our job to interfere. His family can handle it.” She went back to the computer, brought up a set of files. “Why don’t we get back to work?”

            Her enthusiasm sparking again, Nell went to the computer and began firing out ideas, taking the pins out of her hair and kicking off her shoes, ready to change into uniform. Hovering anxiously by Colin, Lucas glanced in between the computer and the red-haired boy; Colin did not move.

            “We’re still working on our case,” said Ellen, tucking an earpiece into her ear, “which unfortunately means that Abuse is out of commission tonight.”

            From the screen, the girl in front, a scarf wrapped around her head and neck, said, “I’m still not completely sure about the origin of the toxin, but it’s got to be one of Hellfern’s or Crane’s. Supposedly Crane is in Arkham right now, but you never know with that.”

            “It could be neither,” piped in Nell. "It seems a little amateur to be handled by doctors, right?" She sifted through the photographs of bodies before the computer. “Mishandling the drug would explain why the vics died. I mean," she dded, "obviously it _is_ survivable.” She threw a pointed look Colin’s way, and he glared back at her. “I don’t understand why it tore these people apart.”

            “It’s not a perfect match,” answered Niloufar, from the computer. “Decay, maybe, or something like that. The samples we could get were contaminated, like whatever is in Abuse was the prototype, so-”

            Loudly, his footsteps ringing about the Bunker, Colin left, heading to the lockers. Lucas helplessly met Ellen’s gaze, and then hurried after him.

            Ellen turned back to the screen, but said nothing. Niloufar watched her, but held her tongue; finally, Nell, glancing back and forth between the two other women, said, “Sorry. Maybe we shouldn’t talk like that around him.”

            “Like how?” asked Niloufar. “We need to discuss these facts. If he is so incapable of doing so, then maybe he shouldn’t be a part of this team.”

            “Hey,” said Ellen sharply, looking up at Niloufar. “Nell’s right. It’s not really fair of us to treat this like any other investigation. Whatever it is that killed those people – that drug is  _in_  Colin. And whether or not he wants to admit it, it’s affecting him too.” She paused, glancing behind her, then lowered her voice and leaned in towards the computer. “His transformations are almost beyond his control, at this point,” she continued. “Robin got him into this drug trial that should help, but I don’t know that’s what he needs.”

            “What do you think he needs?” asked Nell.

            “Dialysis,” answered Ellen. “Or something. Something to get it out of him, for good.”

            “That’d be like shutting him down, though,” said Nell seriously, holding the file in her hands. “Robin would never let him work if he didn’t have his powers.”

            “Well,” began Ellen, “maybe some of us don’t have to be a vigilante forever.”

            “Correction,” said Niloufar emphatically, “none of us  _have_  to be a vigilante at all.”

             “She says, through Batman’s tech in the underground safehouse she built,” noted Ellen, grinning slightly up at the computer. Niloufar rolled her eyes. “The fact of the matter,” said Ellen, “is that we can figure this out, with or without Robin. So that’s what we’re going to do.”

            “OK,” sighed Nell, leaning over the seat before the computer. “Can Colin and me at least take regular rounds around our neighborhood? My neighbor, Missus Harris, she had a broken arm yesterday, and I  _know_  she didn’t fall down any stairs…”

            Ellen took the file that Nell was holding, and considered this. “You can manage that out of uniform,” she said, glancing down at the pages before her. “You could even call the police, you know.”

            At this, Nell actually laughed. “Cops,” she said, almost fondly, as if Ellen had shared a particularly humorous joke.

            “I’m serious,” said Ellen. “Do your thing, as long as you don’t attract any unnecessary attention.” Addressing Niloufar, she asked, “This thing in Midtown, is it enough of a lead to follow?”

            “Yes,” answered Niloufar, peering off-screen, searching for something. “I say we start there. Mostly because I don’t have anything else for you.”

            “That’s fine,” said Ellen, putting the files away. “I’ll bring Lux for back-up. Unless you’d like to join me, Niloufar?”

            “No, thank you,” answered the woman on the computer. “Lucas is a good idea, in case you need a little extra power.”

            From behind Niloufar, Jordan appeared again. “What are we doing?” she asked, a cigarette in hand, sounding vaguely interested. "Someone need a little extra brawn?"

            Niloufar turned around only to take the cigarette away from her. “No smoking,” she said, not facing the computer. “I’ve told you a hundred times.”

            “It’s not like it can  _hurt_ me-” protested Jordan, but Niloufar successfully managed to push her out of frame.

            “Keep me updated,” said Ellen, and then she terminated the call. For a second, neither she nor Nell said anything, then Ellen headed towards the lockers, saying, “I don’t want you and Colin out late. Before two. OK?”

            Following Ellen, Nell began to complain, “But it’s already  _eleven_ , that hardly gives us any time-”

            “If you don’t have to,” said Ellen simply, “then don’t.”

            Sourly, Nell brushed her fingers through her hair. “Good luck trying to get Lucas away from Colin for the thing tonight,” she said, pausing by the entrance to a bathroom. “You know he’s the only one who can keep calm.”

            Ellen turned and met Nell’s eyes for a moment, then the younger girl disappeared into the bathroom. For another moment, Ellen didn’t move, and then she headed back to where they stored their uniforms.

            She paused; from within, she could faintly hear some murmuring, no doubt Lucas’s steady, reassuring words. She only really allowed them a moment before she stepped out, watching them. Colin sat on a bench, his arms slid around Lucas’s waist, his back curled and head buried in Lucas’s chest. Lucas looked up and met Ellen’s gaze, but said nothing.

            “Hey,” said Ellen gently, and for a moment, Colin didn’t move. Then he sat up straight, running a hand through his hair, glancing back at her silently. She strode forward and sat down on the other side of Colin. None of them spoke until Ellen broke the silence, asking, “Are you OK?”

            Colin shifted slightly under Lucas's touch. “Don't worry about me,” he said. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

            He stood up, pulling away from her, attempting to remove his bowtie. At his frustration, Lucas stood up to help, and Ellen watched. “There isn’t anything we can do for Damian,” she said. “That’s his responsibility, not ours.”

            “He’s a part of us,” insisted Colin.

            “Look,” said Ellen, leaning back, her eyes sliding from Lucas’s hands on the tie to Colin’s face, “ _Robin_  is a part of this team. That much is true. But Damian Wayne?”

            Refusing to even look at her, Colin said nothing.

            “He’s his own family’s problem,” she said, with finality. “We’ll let them handle it.”

            Annoyed, Colin turned away, Lucas finished with his bowtie. “You’re pretty much part of their family now. Right?”

            She didn’t answer. Lucas said quietly, “Congratulations, Ellen, by the way, that’s really sweet. I didn’t even realize you and him were-”

            “Yeah,” interrupted Colin, turning around, leaning on the lockers to watch her. “I thought you two were still just sleeping together.”

            She stared him.

            Lowering his gaze, he looked away. Gruffly, he muttered, “Yeah. Whatever,” which Ellen knew to interpret as an apology.

            After another moment, Lucas glancing between Colin and Ellen nervously, Ellen swept some hair out of her face and said calmly, “Lucas, I need you with me tonight.”

            “OK,” said Lucas, nodding, and Colin asked, “For what?”

            “We have a lead on toxin production in Midtown,” answered Ellen truthfully, getting to her feet. “I’m going for it, and I need back-up.”

            “I can go,” said Colin, but only half-heartedly; he already knew Ellen’s answer.

            “No,” she said, “Nell wants you with her tonight. She says there’ve been disturbances in your neighborhood. You’re welcome to that, if you want, but no uniform.” She headed out of the room. “Do you understand me?”

            Sneering at her, Colin sniffed, “You’re not the boss of me,” but he was no longer being serious, and Ellen grinned at him, then disappeared.

            The two men were alone for a moment. Lucas reached out, put his arms around Colin, face buried in the little crook where his neck and shoulder met. After a moment’s silence, Lucas murmured, “I wish Robin was here.”

            It was early in the morning that Ellen returned to the apartment she shared with her grandparents, silently entering and falling into her small bed, squeezing her eyes shut tightly, jaw clenched. The lead in Midtown had been fruitless, they were no closer to solving their case, and she hadn’t heard back from Damian. She held her field communicator in one hand and her regular smartphone in the other, closing her eyes and lying in the dark, waiting for sleep. Just as she was beginning to feel light enough to drift off, she heard the telltale sounds of her grandparents getting up, grumbling, limping through the apartment, putting coffee on. Sun crept in through the crack in her curtains, piercing into the room like a column of fire; she made a quiet noise of annoyance and shifted in bed. The sunbeam fell directly on her face, warmed by its refraction through the glass. As she lay there, dropping off to sleep, the heat of it built until it suddenly seared her skin like some kind of blade and she jerked awake, shivering despite the warmth, hands pressed to her face, the puckered scar there.

            Sitting up and swinging her legs out of bed, she pressed her hands to her face, rubbed her eyes. Her pulse was too quick and strong, and she took a few minutes to calm herself down, then went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. It was just the sun, just the heat. Nothing more.

            She tugged at her sheets, watched her phone tumble onto the bed, picked it up. No messages, nothing. In her small room, containing nothing more than a bed and a big chest of drawers, Ellen stood silently for a moment, holding the phone tightly in her hand. She was not unused to hearing nothing from Damian for a day or two, but she was also unused to worrying about him; there was nothing, she always thought, that could hurt Robin. Damian Wayne, on the other hand, she wasn’t so sure about. She crossed her room and opened the small window, hanging her head out, staring down at the street below her. The avenue was quiet and languid in the late summer heat, and sweat broke out on the back of her neck as she stared out with unseeing eyes. Her phone rang. Without looking back, a dark, oppressive weight in her chest seemed to lift, and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She turned back to her bed, taking the phone and answering it, eyes closed. “Hello?”

            “Ellen,” said Damian’s voice; Ellen breathed a silent sigh of relief. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier.”

            “No, it’s fine,” she answered, sitting on her bed. “You were arrested. So you get a free pass this one time.”

            “Thank you,” he murmured, and she couldn’t tell whether or not the sincerity was faked. “Can you meet me in my office in an hour?”

            Dubiously, she asked, “Your office?”

            “Yes,” he answered. “In the Tower.”

            She hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Should I schedule an appointment with your secretary first?”

            “I’m needed at work,” he said simply, in lieu of a reply. “Considering the circumstances, I don’t have much of a choice.”

            There was a silence. Then, gently, Ellen asked, “What’s going on?”

            “Lots of things,” answered Damian smartly. “I’ll explain everything today.”

            Ellen paused, then said, “I have work too, you know.”

            “This won’t take long.”

            “Just the thing you want to hear from your fiancé.”

            He hesitated, but when he spoke again, his voice was softer, more tender. “When they cavity-searched me for concealed weapons, I was thinking of you.”

            Amused, she replied, “They don’t perform cavity searches on people as rich as you.”

            “My point being that in the eight long hours that we were apart, I missed you terribly.”

            “You’re sweet, and I am content. I’ll see you in an hour.”

            “I certainly hope so.”

            Without saying the word  _goodbye_  she hung up, the roiling in her belly calmed for the moment.

            Although it was Damian’s office, Dick sat in his seat, feet resting on the desk, rolling a stress ball from hand to hand seriously. Bruce sat in one of the big, soft chairs before the desk, lost in thought with his hand over his mouth, while his son strode pacing back and forth across the room. “Alright,” said Dick, squeezing the stress ball. “You  _didn’t_  put the money into the Gibraltar account?”

            Indignantly, Damian began, “Well, yes, I did. Some of it. But it’s not as if I took it from the Foundation, or by any illegal means whatsoever. It’s my money, and-”

            “Yeah, actually,” interrupted Dick, nodding towards Bruce, “it’s  _his_ money, but continue.”

            Damian’s eyes flickered from his father to Dick. “What I mean is, it comes out of my trust fund.”

            “All of it?”

            He hesitated. “Most of it,” he said. “Anything else is a gift from my mother. And I can hardly be held responsible for how she produces her profit.”

            “But the important thing is,” continued Dick, brow furrowed in thought, pressing the tips of his fingers into the foam ball, “that we can verify that you have made transfers out of your own personal accounts. I know how you are about financial documentation, there’s got to be some form of evidence lying around.” There was silence. Dick looked up at Damian, whose lips were pressed together tightly. Cautiously, Dick asked, “Damian…?”

            “ _Well_ ,” began Damian, agitated, “the Gibraltar account is specifically meant to be confidential, hence why it’s an offshore account. Someone would have had to dig very deeply to find it, which I think says a lot about-”

            “Damian,” said Dick, taking his feet off the desk. “What are you trying to say?”

            Almost worriedly, Damian watched Dick for a moment, and then admitted, “I haven’t been keeping records of my transfers to the account. They were meant to be clandestine. I suppose technically the money is untraceable, which is both why they don’t have much of a case, and also likely why they suspected me to begin with.”

            “Untraceable money in an offshore account,” said Dick, shaking his head. “Because that’s not the most suspicious thing. Oh, wait, it actually isn’t even. Typical Gotham trash. I mean,  _really_ , you’d think they have some other scumbags to deal with-”

            “For what do you use that account?”

            Instantly, Dick fell silent, glancing at Bruce; he had spoken very little since they got in that morning, and there was something off about his speech and the slowness of his actions. It made Damian vaguely uncomfortable.

            “I use it,” said Damian shortly, “for my…investments abroad.”

            Silence. Dick echoed, “Investments.”

            “Yes,” said Damian. “For my ventures in Europe.”

            Skeptically, Dick asked, “What ventures in Europe?”

            “I can assure you that none of them involve drug or sex trafficking,” answered Damian briskly, “if that’s what you mean.”

            “Uh, no,” said Dick. “It’s not. But, hey, while we’re on the subject-”

            Damian muttered, “Oh, Christ.”

            “-fifty  _thousand_  dollars to Wayne Pharmaceuticals? What the fuck happened there?”

            “Dick.”

            “Sorry, Bruce. Dollar for the swear jar when we get home.”

            Damian had stiffened slightly at Dick’s comment. He straightened his tie, then said lowly, his voice characteristically cold, “I wouldn’t buy drugs.”

            “You probably don’t even need to,” said Dick lightly, but his voice was tinged with the scent of poison. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s kid, I bet you can go to any back-alley and people will literally just deliver their heroin unto you completely unasked for-”

            “There’s an experimental drug trial,” said Damian, his voice hard. “I have a friend who needed to be a part of it. They didn’t have a place for him for anything less than fifty thousand.”

            There was silence. Dick tossed the ball up in the air, then held it, then placed it on the desk. “So a bribe  _was_  involved,” he said. “Just with good intentions.”

            “He needs it,” stressed Damian. “I couldn’t get him access to this type of thing otherwise. I hardly think looking out for your friend is a criminal offense.”

            “No,” said Bruce, “it’s not. We do what's necessary.” He glanced at Damian and nodded. “That, at least, shouldn’t cause you any trouble.”

            “OK,” said Dick, leaning back in the seat, tips of his fingers pressed together. “Now we’re getting to the Powerball.”

            Damian said nothing and wouldn’t meet Dick’s gaze; his eyes searched around the room, looking for anything but Dick’s stare.

            “Really,” said Dick, and there was not quite a reprimand in his voice. If anything, he just sounded a little put out. “I know your sex-fiend phase was nigh unavoidable, but did you  _not_  think this was going to come back and bite you in the ass?”

            “No,” shot back Damian, and then he continued, “I realize we must face the consequences of our mistakes, but I hardly think that this is fair-”

            Sighing loudly, Dick leaned forward, interrupting Damian. “It wasn’t quite a  _mistake_  though, huh?” he asked, scrutinizing the younger man. “In fact, as I recall, it was pretty goddamn deliberate.”

            “Don’t begin this with me,” said Damian, making a face at Dick.

            “Damian,” said Bruce. He fell silent and looked to his father seriously. “Dick is right,” Bruce said simply, watching his son. “We don’t have an excuse for this one.”

            He paused, as if waiting for Damian to say something. Deflating slightly, Damian leaned against the wall grouchily. “It’s not as if I single-handedly kept the Gotham sex trade alive,” he murmured, glaring at the ground. “That’s what they make it sound like.”

            “But you had a part in it,” said Bruce quietly. “Your money – my family’s money – went into it. You need to remember that.”

            Damian glanced up, hardly able to meet his father’s gaze, but forcing himself to anyway.

            “Oh,” said Dick, craning his neck to peer out the frosted glass at someone approaching the office. “That reminds me, this is the sort of thing you should probably consider telling your girlfriend. I don’t think she’ll want to hear it for the first time in the courthouse.” There was a knock on the door, and then it opened.

            Ellen stood there, watching them with dark, uncertain eyes. But after just a moment, the hesitation in her expression disappeared as Dick said graciously, “Ellen, ah. Glad to see you’re OK.”

            Bruce stood up. “I apologize,” he began, “but I have some business to attend to.” He nodded to Ellen as she stepped aside, allowing him out. “Miss Nayar.”

            She bowed her head slightly. “Mister Wayne.”

            He paused, watching her, then glanced back at Damian. “I trust you won’t allow my son to get into too much trouble, in the future,” he said. “Clearly he needs someone like you to keep him…” he paused, as if tasting the word in his mouth, “…appropriate.” And with that, he swept away.

            As soon as the door drifted closed behind him, Damian made a face and held up an emphatic middle finger to where his father had been standing. Ellen giggled and crossed the room; he lightly touched her waist, and she kissed him shortly on the mouth. “You’re not in jail,” she said. “Good.”

            “Yeah,” said Dick, watching them. “Bail was fun. Right, kiddo?”

            Ellen smiled, looking at Dick then back at Damian affectionately. “Do I even want to know?”

            Damian took her hand and brought her to one of the seats before his desk, sitting as well. Trying to conceal his grin, Dick said, “Twelve million dollars.”

            “Twelve  _million_ -?”

            “Apparently,” said Damian sourly, “I’m a flight risk.”

            “So what’s going to happen?” asked Ellen. “Is this going to court?”

            “Yes,” sighed Dick, getting to his feet. “Looks like it. But we’ll figure something out. In the meantime, you both can just keep on doing business as usual. Significantly more romantically, though, if you’d like. Pick a wedding date, and everything.”

            “Thank you, Dick,” said Damian, his voice hard, and Dick nodded, heading towards the door.

            “OK, OK,” he said. “I’ll leave both to your cute little emotionally stunted expressions of monogamous love. I’ll see you later, Damian.”

            Damian said nothing in farewell, only kept his eyes focused on Ellen as Dick left the office, and then they were alone.

            In the vacant stillness of the room, she watched him expectantly. “Is this the part,” she began, “where you tell me what’s going on?”

            He looked at her glumly, then his gaze darted down to her hand. “You’re not wearing your ring,” he remarked.

            Flexing her fingers self-consciously, she nodded. “You noticed.”

            In a tone devoid of anything except a vague sort of concern, he said, “I noticed the moment you walked in the door. Presumably my father and brother did as well, which is perhaps why they left so quickly. Maybe they think you have something to tell me.”

            The expression on her face was something between amusement and genuine worry, the scar on her face, as always, lending a sort of odd questioning look to her. “I do, in fact,” she said. “The lead in Midtown turned out to be unrelated. And Colin’s been convinced to at least stay restricted to petty crime.”

            Damian’s head moved almost imperceptibly in a nod, then his eyes flickered away from her, and he said nothing. With a little roll of her eyes, she said: “Damian.” He looked back. Her fingers went to a thin, long silver chain around her neck and she pulled it up; from beneath her neckline she revealed the ring hanging on the chain, glittering in the natural light of the room. Tucking it back into her shirt, she added, “I don’t know what kind of Gotham  _you’re_  familiar with, but where I’m from, it’s not the best idea to advertise something like that right on your finger.”

            “Ah,” he said, but the glint in his eyes was back, “yes. Because you would be utterly defenseless against a common mugging.”

            “I wouldn’t want to risk it,” she said coolly. “As I understand, the Wayne family has kind of a bad track record in that department.”

            For a moment, Damian was silent, and then he laughed. “That’s terrible,” he said fondly, then got to his feet and went to the seat behind his desk. “You’re terrible, Ellen.”

            “Maybe,” she said mildly. “You're the one who fell in love with me.”

            He leaned back in his seat, barricaded against the summer sun by the blinds on the window behind him. “I’m in an awkward position right now,” he sighed. “I didn’t really expect this, and the timing’s poor.”

            “You’ll get through it,” said Ellen smartly. “Do you have a trial date set yet?”

            “No,” replied Damian, looking down at his desk. “But soon. As I understand, they’re eager to bespoil my name.”

            “Bespoil.”

            “That’s what I said.”

            “What are you even in for?”

            “Embezzlement,” replied Damian. “Fraud. Bribery, probably, now. And once I had sex with a number of people after money exchanged hands.”

            Ellen blinked at him. “What was that last thing?”

            “Prostitution,” sighed Damian, typing on his computer. “Or something. You know.”

            “I don’t know,” said Ellen, sounding almost cautious. “Please, tell me.”

            He glanced at her. “You don’t know?”

            “About your purchasing sexual services? No, I didn’t know.”

            Visibly bothered by this, he shook his head back, then cleared his throat. Wisely, he said, “We all do stupid things when we are young.”

            “Yeah,” said Ellen fairly. “One time I broke my neighbor’s window, and lied about it. I don’t think I ever bought sex, though.”

            “Oh,” Damian began, making a face, “don’t turn this into something I have to be concerned about. It was a horny, heartbroken decision a few years ago, the record of which will now haunt me for the rest of my natural life.” He paused, then added, “And beyond, presumably, depending on how my relationship with my mother’s side of the family may progress.”

             “What records do they have?”

            “A video,” he replied, picking up a pen and making a note on a pad of paper in the corner of his desk. “It’s particularly graphic, and were I more modest I would likely have it removed from evidence and destroyed.” He paused, typing into his computer. “But that would seem incriminating, I think.”

            With a vague, wry expression on her face - not quite a smile - Ellen watched him carefully. “You have a sex tape,” she said, her voice hushed, almost in awe.

            He grimaced, still typing. “Let’s not dwell on that fact.”

            “What's it like?”

            “You wouldn’t like it. At all.”

            There was a silence between them. He worked, and she watched him. After a moment, she got to her feet, sweeping her long hair back. “I have work, too,” she said. “If we’re all done here.”

            Looking up from his computer, Damian paused, watching her. “I would invite you behind the desk,” he said, nodding downwards, his face deadpan, but she could detect the good humor in his voice, “but, you know.” He nodded again, this time indicating the glass walls of the office. “Bad PR, given the nature of my indictment.”

            Reaching across the desk, she took his hand. “Will I see you tonight?”

            “Certainly,” he replied, raising her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against her skin. “Assuming Dick isn’t staying in the suite at the Penthouse-”

            She pulled her hand from his and placed her palm affectionately on his cheek, her thumb grazing against his skin. “In uniform, I mean.” Placing his hand over hers, he nodded. “No more trouble,” she said smartly, taking her hand away. “I don’t like it, and I don’t like worrying about you.”

            “Then don’t,” he answered. “Do your work, and I’ll do mine, and this will be over soon.”

            “I’m prepared to act as a character witness,” she offered, “if you need it.”

            “There’s no need,” replied Damian, shaking his head. “I’d prefer they dwelt on my personal life as little as possible. There are certain…family secrets which we must protect.” He smiled at her.

            She returned the smile, although the warmth did not quite make it to her eyes. “I keep saying to myself,  _he’ll be fine, don’t worry_.” She paused, her eyes focused on his. “Don’t let me down.”

            With a slight nod, she turned and headed to the door, where she paused, glancing back at him. In response, he bowed his head, never tearing his gaze away from hers. “Anything,” he said, “for you.”

            Her lips twitched into something resembling a hint of a smile, and then she was gone.


	6. Poisoned Pawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poisoned pawn
> 
> An unprotected pawn which, if captured, causes positional problems or material loss.

            “Robin. I’m with Seraph at the Gotham Mercy morgue, we’ve got a body.”

            “Understood. I’m heading that way. What kind of body?”

            “Fits the pattern. Except…”

            Ellen trailed off. Damian adjusted the lenses of his mask, decreasing the magnification. “Something new?”

            “Maybe. Get here and we’ll show you.”

            Without a reply, Damian dropped from the fire escape of the building from which he’d been surveying the city, finding his modified motorcycle waiting there in the alley. He darted through the streets of Gotham; as always, he avoided larger roads, but he was not so self-conscious about keeping his presence a secret in the city as he used to be. It had been a long time ago that he learned the importance of Batman and Robin to Gotham, and he no longer felt the need to shy away from its eyes, even in the unnaturally quiet stillness of the warm night.

            In the morgue, Ellen stood beside the body, while Niloufar finished some basic analysis on the tissue sample she’d taken. “It’s odd,” she said, lost in thought. “The choice of victims themselves is obviously deliberate, but it doesn’t seem like the precise cause of death is, which is atypical of the kind criminal who would usually do this. It’s less like some kind of serial killing, or murder spree, and maybe something more like…I don’t know, a-”

            “A message.”

            Both women looked around; Niloufar jumped slightly at the voice, interrupting her musing, but Ellen's mask hid her face completely, obscuring her expression. Damian crouched at the window, scrutinizing them with a pained look of exhaustion on his face. Slipping into the room, he approached the body, then fell still.

            Quietly, he said, “You didn’t tell me it was a child.”

            Her gaze impossible to follow in the darkness of the room, but Damian could feel Ellen’s eyes on him. “His name was Jacob Maertz. They found him this morning.”

            Remaining a few feet away from the body, keeping a noticeable distance between him and it, he asked, “Orphan?”

            “No. Parents in Gotham County.”

            Damian glanced up at Ellen. “The suburbs?”

            “That’s exactly what I said,” answered Ellen, nodding slightly, then looking back at the body. “Out of the usual range for our killer.”

            “Where did they find him?” asked Damian.

            “Elliot and Robinson,” said Ellen. “Same area as the rest of them.”

            “With a chess piece in his mouth, too,” continued Niloufar, nodding to where a small white pawn lay in a clear plastic bag. It was, Damian realized, their eighth body found; their eighth white pawn. Enough to graduate to more valuable pieces. Leaning in towards her portable computer, Niloufar added, “The evidence suggests that he was killed in or near his home, likely from suffocation, and then his body was moved into the city afterwards.”

            Raising an eyebrow, Damian looked up at Niloufar. “He was suffocated?”

            Niloufar nodded. “From what I can tell,” she said, turning back to the body, “the toxin was administered after the fact, from an injection directly into the heart, here.” She uncovered the body, pointing to the chest. “Unlike most of our victims, Jacob Maertz was not killed by the poison in his system. He was murdered, and then the toxin was planted in his body.”

            Nodding faintly, Damian stared almost unseeingly at the body. “So we have a corpse,” he began, “which fits the general pattern of victims, except where it doesn’t.”

            “Could it have been an unrelated death?” asked Ellen, peering around at Niloufar. “Maybe our guy picked him up post-mortem.”

            Before Ellen even finished her question, Niloufar shook her head. “I doubt that,” she said. “It was an act of convenience. I don’t think it really matters how the child dies. In fact, that may be the assumption that’s holding us back on this case.”

            Damian’s eyes flickered up to look at her. “What do you mean?”

            “The method of death isn't important,” Niloufar explained. “The toxin doesn't need to _kill_ him, it just has to be in him, and that we find him.” She hesitated, then began, “I mean…” she gestured towards the kid’s face. “ _Look_ at him.”

            There was silence as they all stared at the body.

            With a reluctant, defeated sigh, Damian nodded vaguely, then glanced around, looking everywhere but the examination table before them, running a distressed hand through his hair.

            Ellen said softly, “He looks just like Colin.”

            “They all had connections to him,” said Niloufar, her voice determined. “Either through the orphanage or through his work as Abuse, not to mention the fact that the toxin is a decayed version of the serum that gave him his powers to begin with. And now, this. We’ve got a dead red-headed twelve-year-old from the County lines, and we’re not going to talk about involving Colin?”

            “He’s off of the streets,” replied Damian, finality in his voice. “I’ve known this involved him from the very start, and-”

            “That’s not what I mean,” stressed Niloufar, interrupting him. “This isn’t a matter of _protecting_ him, it’s someone trying to reach him, trying to get to him. This gets to be his battle, Robin, because it _has_ to be – if you don’t think he’s at least a little bit responsible-”

            “For what?” asked Damian, his eyes flashing darkly. “For being kidnapped and experimented on as a child? For _knowing_ these people?”

            Niloufar tugged the sheet over the body again, refusing to speak for a tense moment. Damian waited for her, eyes on her face.

            Almost cautiously, Damian continued, “I don’t believe in personal ownership of crime. The onus does not lie on him alone, and while he’s in danger it would be wrong to let him-”

            “Fine,” said Niloufar coolly. “But this says a lot about the differences between me and you, Robin.”

            He stared at her. “Does it?”

            “Yes,” she answered, meeting his gaze, a buzzing anger in her voice. “You look at this child and only think about your friend’s wellbeing. I look at this dead child and think, _We have to find whoever’s doing this, and punish them_.”

            Damian watched her.

            She closed her small computer and chemical analysis set, keeping a tissue sample. “That’s all,” she snapped, and she turned to leave.

            Once alone, Ellen moved the child’s body back to its proper place in the morgue, then stood with Damian. After a moment of silence in which Damian didn’t move at all, Ellen said, “She has a younger brother the same age. And this was practically her neighborhood.” He didn’t say anything. “This scares her.”

            “It should,” answered Damian gruffly. “It should scare all of you, Colin included. Colin especially. I don’t know why he won’t take it seriously.”

            “He is taking it seriously,” said Ellen. “But, for once in his life, he probably agrees with Niloufar on this one. He hates not being out there, Robin. He's one more dead kid away from refusing all our orders, and then he's a loose cannon, and we have to worry about him more." She paused, watching Damian almost beseechingly. "Maybe he should be involved with this. Maybe he should be _leading_ this investigation.”

            “I hardly think that’s a wise-”

            “Who else is going to?” pressed Ellen. “I have a hundred other cases to take care of right now, and most of them I share with you. And you’ve got all those _civilian_ problems you’re dealing with right now.”

            “They’re nothing,” said Damian, shaking his head. “It’ll pass.”

            “We all know that,” said Ellen. “But you can’t think you’re capable of carrying all this at one time.”

            There was a frustrated silence. His voice slightly hushed, Damian said, “I don’t like having conversations like these while we’re surrounded by corpses.”

            “Well,” shrugged Ellen, “it’s part of the job. You should know that even better than I do.”

            “No,” Damian shot back. He raised his arms slightly, gesturing around them. “How can you tell me that I can’t carry all of this, when we’re surrounded by the bodies of people whom I could not carry, whom I could not save? Don’t you think I already know that?” She said nothing. He lowered his voice, but kept the spitting venom in it. “Don’t ever presume that I don’t know what I can’t do,” he said, voice burning in the back of his throat. “I am acutely aware of my failures.”

            For a long moment, neither of them said anything. And then, lowly, Ellen said, “This has nothing to do with you. You need to get over the part of you that takes responsibility when things like this happen.”

            He shook his head and turned away from her, heading towards the window and disappearing, leaving Ellen alone in the shadowy morgue.

            It was early morning when Damian returned to the Manor, changing out of his uniform and heading upstairs to the kitchen, where Alfred was preparing food. As he sat down, he glanced at Tim, sitting beside Damian with a half-eaten sandwich before him, peering down at a tablet and occasionally sweeping his finger across, reading information. “Master Damian,” said Alfred, placing a plat in front of him. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

            “No,” answered Damian shortly. “But I’ve been utilizing microsleeps throughout the past few days, so my mental functions haven’t been affected.”

            “Yeah,” muttered Tim, glancing up darkly, “no more than usual.”

            Taking a huge mouthful of his sandwich, Damian considered punching Tim, but decided against it. “What are you doing?” he asked, trying to see the screen of Tim’s tablet. “Were you even on patrol last night?”

            “No,” answered Tim tersely. “I’ve been stuck here doing my job.”

            “Oh, we _all_ have jobs, Mister Drake,” said Damian, rolling his eyes derisively. “Some more prestigious than others.” He cleared his throat and smirked; Tim didn’t even look up.

            “Do you realize it’s been three weeks since your arrest?” asked Tim, without glancing up at Damian. “And yet we’re still no closer to finding out what happened to that money. So I get to stay here – and postpone important work elsewhere, I might add – and try to figure out how the hell you stole half a million dollars from me.”

            Indignantly, Damian began to protest, then paused, swallowed his mouthful of sandwich, and restarted. “I stole nothing from you,” he said, almost aggressively.

            “Well, OK,” replied Tim. “Babs should call back any minute now. She might confirm. Or she might not, who knows.”

            Damian didn’t respond to this, only continued eating his sandwich, eyeing Tim warily. In another moment, the tell-tale smooth beeping of a call coming in on the tablet rang, and Tim set it upright on the counter before him, murmuring, “That’s her now.”

            A face materialized on the screen; Barbara Gordon, ginger hair tied back, glasses glinting slightly with the reflection from her own computer screen. “Good morning, you,” she said, without quite smiling, but both Tim and Damian knew her well enough to recognize a good mood when they saw it.

            “Hi,” responded Tim; Damian leaned in slightly, peering at the screen. Pushing him away, Tim added dryly, “Is it OK if the demonspawn hears whatever you have to say? Dick said I should make a conscious effort not to exclude him, because that’s a form of bullying.”

            “Damn right,” came a voice from behind Barbara, and the almost-smile on her face deepened. Damian leaned heavily against Tim, now staring suspiciously at the screen.

            “Is Dick there?” he asked, sounding vaguely scandalized.

            At that moment, Dick appeared behind Barbara’s chair, fishing pretzels out of a small plastic snack bag. “No,” said he and Barbara simultaneously. Tim couldn’t tell if the little sneer on Damian’s face was of disapproval or of distaste that they would so deliberately lie to him.

            “This is fine for the whole family,” continued Barbara. “You guys sure are exciting, I gotta give you that.” Dick reached out and gently ran his fingers through Barbara’s hair; she raised a hand and batted him away, saying, “It’s actually really odd, to be honest. As soon as the money’s taken out of your budget, it disappears. And the money transferred into Damian’s Gibraltar account practically comes out of nowhere.”

            “I _told_ you,” said Damian, “I destroyed the records and hid the ties. I thought that was how we’re _supposed_ to-”

            “Yeah, OK,” said Barbara dismissively, cutting him off. “Sometimes it occurs to me that you’re just a little too good at this job, kid.”

            Damian rolled his eyes and ceased leaning on Tim, for which Tim was secretly grateful because he’d been basically falling off his seat. “All right,” said Tim, nodding. “I can accept that this kid hides his money pretty well. I mean, if I were a patron at the _Pearl Collar_ , I’d figure out how to hide my money too.” He held back a pointed snicker at Damian’s expense.

            “That’s not funny,” sniffed Damian.

            “But,” continued Tim, grinning slightly, glancing at Damian then back at the screen, “I don’t see how it’s possible for _my_ money just to up and disappear. You’re Oracle, if you can’t find it, it’s just not there.”

            Barbara nodded, and there was a flicker of something in her eyes that might have been appreciation for his compliment. “Here’s the thing,” she said, “I may not be able to track where the money went, but I did find when and how it got taken out.”

            “Well, we know that,” said Tim. “Um, it was, May, February, November, et cetera. Hidden in the first aid and sports supplies budget. That was probably the discrepancy that they noticed, like, who needs two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Band-Aids?”

            “There’s more to that,” she said. “The transfers were authorized with a Wayne passcode.”

            “One would assume so, yes,” answered Damian, sounding irritated. “It is a Wayne Enterprises entity.”

            “No,” said Barbara. “I mean a _Wayne_ passcode. As in, Wayne extracurricular activities. As in, a passcode identifying one of the three vigilantes who make up the remaining scion of the Wayne family.”

            “Three?” asked Damian, and even on the video, they all saw his eyes flicker up to Dick, standing behind Barbara.

            “I don’t even have access to this,” said Dick cheerfully. “I didn’t even know we _had_ a business passcode.” He shrugged, grinning. “That’s what I get for never changing my last name.”

            Tim drummed his fingers on the countertop, then asked, “So what does that mean? How did whoever did this get that kind of clearance?”

            “That’s exactly my point,” said Barbara, taking off her glasses and polishing her lenses with the bottom of her shirt. “Speaking as an objective observer who happens to be intimately familiar with the privacy habits of the Wayne family-”

            “ _Intimately_ familiar,” stressed Dick.

            “-I doubt there’s any way an outsider could’ve gotten through this kind of authentication.”

            Neither Tim nor Damian said anything. And then, glancing at Damian, he looked back to the screen and said, “So what you’re saying it…Damian probably _did_ do it.”

            Barbara shrugged. “I’ll admit, I’m kind of at a loss here.”

            “I didn’t do it,” said Damian stubbornly. “And I’m so offended that you think I would have.”

            “Hey,” said Tim, looking at him. “Who knows? Maybe you were mind-controlled or something. You know, Ivy dabs a little sex pollen under your nose, and suddenly you’re transferring money to environmental terrorists, and making yourself a sex tape.” He laughed. “Oh wait, too late for that last one.”

            At this, Damian’s fist actually shot out to strike Tim, but Tim avoided him easily, letting out another derisive laugh. From the screen, Dick said, “ _Damian_ ,” authoritatively, and Damian relented, sitting there before his mostly-eaten sandwich, fuming.

            After a moment, Barbara added, “But.”

            Tim sighed, “Always a but.”

            “You guys are right about one thing,” she said. “A money transfer of this kind requires that someone put in the passcode and make the changes themselves – in person.” She paused, her eyes sliding to Damian on the screen before her. “Which means that it would have been impossible for Damian to have wired that money in February, because he was with Talia.”

            “ _Thank_ you,” said Damian emphatically.

            “Admittedly the wire transfer to the Gibraltar account of nine hundred thousand dollars, like, the day after is pretty incriminating,” she added, “but as I understand, that was just Talia trying to bribe him into not hating her.”

            “I don’t hate her,” grumbled Damian, uncharacteristically half-hearted.

            “So where does that leave us?” asked Tim, frowning. “It’s not like we can bring that up in court. We’re not public with Damian’s mother-”

            “Nor does anyone want to be,” added Damian, leaning in towards Tim again. “Myself included.”

            “-and I don’t think announcing his relation to a friggin’ _supervillain_ in the midst of a trial would be all that advantageous.”

            Barbara typed something into her computer that they couldn’t see. “She has her identity as Talia Head,” she said thoughtfully. “If need be, that’s at least better than al Ghul.”

            “Oh, great idea,” said Tim sarcastically. “Bring in _Talia al Ghul_ to act as a character witness for her son. That’s likely.”

            Sourly, Damian said, “She’d do it. If I asked her.”

            “No,” said Tim and Barbara simultaneously. Barbara continued, “Regardless of any motherly duty you think she’d be performing for you by doing so, it’s not a good idea to get that woman to testify for anyone. Especially not with Bruce right there.”

            “They’re my parents,” said Damian, impatience in his voice. “I think they could get along for one day, for my sake.”

            “OK,” said Tim, turning to Damian, reaching out to place a hand on Damian’s shoulder, “you need to stop thinking this is all about you.”

            With a little too much force, Damian shook Tim’s hand off of him. “I’m the one in trouble, aren’t I?” he asked, a familiar smoldering burn rising in his eyes. “This is targeting me, and I won’t-”

            “Yeah, OK,” said Tim, rolling his eyes. “Can you save the whole _my life is loneliness, I am the night_ spiel for father-son bonding time? I don’t need your melancholic brooding right now.”

            Disgust painted across his face, Damian pushed the plate away and stood up. “How much longer will you be here?” he asked distrustfully. “And how much longer do I have to put up with you before I can cause serious and hopefully irreparable injury?”

            From on the screen, Dick said Damian’s name again, and Damian turned around and stalked out of the room huffily. As he exited the room, Tim stuck his tongue out at Damian’s back childishly. “Tim,” said Dick, leaning over Barbara reproachfully. “This would be easier if you were more mature about it.”

            “I am the picture of maturity,” said Tim calmly, looking back at the screen. “Anyway, thanks, Babs. Keep at it, and let me know if-”

            “Hold on,” she said, interrupting him. “I’m not done.”

            Trailing off, he glanced at the door, then nodded. “OK,” he said. “Go on.”

            “The point I was trying to make,” she said, Dick still hovering behind her, “before we all had to insult Damian’s mom right in front of him,” Tim made a face as if to protest, but she spoke over him, “is that he physically could not have made that transfer in February. But somebody identified as either you, him, or Bruce did.”

            “Or someone who has access to some extremely sensitive information,” said Tim. Barbara gave a half-shrug.

            “That’s possible,” she said, “I _guess_. But I’d say unlikely.”

            There was a silence. Then Tim said, “Well, _I_ didn’t do it.”

            When there was another pause, Dick asked, “Are we really going to do this?”

            Barbara began, “I’m just _saying_ -”

            “Bruce?” asked Dick, sounding distressed. “Really?”

            “We’ll figure it out,” said Barbara, glancing around at Dick. “Obviously there’s something going on that we don’t understand. Not that I would suggest focusing _all_ of our resources on this, but it’s not as if it’s something we can delegate to, like, the police, or anything.”

            Nodding, Tim said, “I get it. I’m still on it. Damian is too, he’s just. You know.” He paused. “Moody.”

            “As he has a right to be,” said Dick pointedly. “We’ve pretty much all been accused of murder at some point or another, so really we should be grateful it’s only as bad as it is.”

            “Don’t you think it’s funny,” said Tim musingly, “that the only one of us who has actually _committed_ a murder is the one who’s never been tried-”

            “ _Tim_.”

            “OK,” sighed Tim, throwing up his hands in defeat. “I get it. I am the middle child, after all. Anything else, Babs?”

            “That’s it,” replied Barbara, obviously checking something on her screen. “Quit whining, Boy Wonder.”

            “Excuse you,” answered Tim mildly, “I’m pretty sure I graduated to _Man_ Wonder a couple years ago.”

            “Woah, woah, woah,” said Dick, leaning into frame. “Are you coming on to my woman?”

            Tim laughed and Barbara shoved Dick away, unable to resist a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Go work,” she said shortly. “So will I. We’ll figure this out.” She hit a button, and the connection terminated.

            Leads on Damian’s case slowed and sputtered to a halt over the next days. A week, then another, passed, and Damian was rarely outside of the house during the day, but only because the publicity on the case had all but blown up, and there were hoards of reporters and photographers and plain-old shameless paparazzi surrounding the Manor, and Damian spent his days scowling out windows and working on the garden. Without bothering to mention it to his father, he spent a weekend out at the stables. Bruce said nothing. He suspected that Ellen had gone with Damian, and he had no interest in interfering there.

            Damian returned late one evening, announcing his arrival by coming down the stairs into the Cave quietly, immediately going to where the samples for chemical analysis were held; he inserted something into the machine and typed in a few commands, but said nothing. Bruce glanced around, then looked back at the computer before him.

            “So,” he said, “I understand they’ve set a court date.”

            For a moment, Damian didn’t reply, only peered at the machine before him. “Yes,” he said simply. “I’m glad. I’ve tired with waiting to prove my innocence.”

            There was silence in the Cave, except for the whirr of machines and the gentle dripping of wetness from the stone ceiling down into the depths. “This is not only about that,” said Bruce, still staring ahead of him. “You have a…” Bruce paused, searching for the correct words, “… _legacy_ to uphold.”

            Damian adjusted the settings on the machine before him. “Of course I know that,” he said. “My responsibility has not been to myself alone for a long time. I will protect our name, our work, everything.” He began the machine’s analysis. “I would do anything and everything necessary, for that.”

            Bruce said nothing. Damian retreated from the machine and headed back to the stairs.

            “My team has an important mission tonight,” he said. “I’ll be overseeing them.”

            At this, Bruce finally turned around. “I need you on your usual route,” he said.

            Damian stopped and met his father’s gaze. “I’ve been planning this.”

            “You haven’t been on patrol in two days,” answered Bruce resolutely. “That team can take care of themselves. They do not need you to babysit them.”

            Damian began, “I’m _guiding_ them-”

            “If it can wait,” interrupted Bruce, holding up a hand to silence Damian, “I would appreciate that.”

            Between them, there was silence. And then Damian looked away. “Fine,” he said. “Of course. I’ll be out there tonight.”

            “Good.” Damian turned and headed up the stairs, skipping them two at a time. Bruce called, “For the future, Damian, while we’re still under such scrutiny, it would be best if you informed me where you’re going before you leave the house.”

            Damian stood there on the steps, itching to say something to his father. Nothing that he could make himself say aloud came to mind. He grunted, “Fine,” and left the Cave.

            The nights were beginning to cool, trees in the parks turning red and orange, losing their leaves. Autumn was a good time for Robin, Damian always thought, because his colors were less unwelcome in the city. On his regular route, he kept the commlink in his ear connected to Ellen, for updates of their mission.

            “Don’t postpone it anymore,” muttered Damian. “You don’t need me. Is Seraph there?”

            “No.”

            “Then let Abuse take the lead on this one.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “You are their leader, Ember, it’s ultimately your decision, not mine.” He paused. “But yes, I think you should do so.”

            “I don’t have any objection. He’ll go in for the first wave, with Lucas. And Nell?”

            “No,” answered Damian. “Spoiler performs excellently as backup, bring her in for the second wave.”

            There was a short silence; Damian peered down into the dark streets, waiting. “I’ll put you on the line with Colin,” said Ellen. “He doesn’t like that you’re not here.”

            “Thank you, Ember.”

            It was a few moments before the commlink at Damian’s ear lit up with another voice, and he patiently continued his route, scanning for crime. It seemed, however, that the cool breeze breaking the summer heat had brought with it an uncharacteristic relief for the city, and all seemed calm. He shouldn’t have had to abandon his team, but his father was right. They could handle themselves, and, in a way, perhaps they should be. He would not always be there to lead them. As of now they could function without him due to Ellen’s excellent leadership, but – he always felt like he was missing him when he was someplace else, a longing merely to participate in whatever they were doing. It was immature and a little pathetic, which he could recognize, and that knowledge was perhaps the only reason he wouldn’t disobey his father’s orders and join them.

            Finally, the buzz of static in his ear. “Robin?”

            “Abuse,” he replied, concealing his relief. “What’s the status update?”

            “We’re in position, waiting for the signal.”

            “Stay alert.”

            “Right.”

            There was a minute or so of silence. Then Colin’s voice, not quite shaking, but certainly not steady either: “I’ve seen pictures of the body.”

            Damian didn’t say anything.

            “Of all of them. I’m not stupid. We knew from the beginning that – whatever they’re doing – they’re not trying to recreate what happened to me.”

            “No, they’re not,” said Damian quietly.

            “They’re killing these kids.”

            “Yes. They are.”

            “To get to me.”

            Damian didn’t say anything. He crouched on the side of a tall building, watching the city beneath him. He let out a long, silent breath, and neither of them said anything.

            And then, Colin said, “We’ve got a read on the target.”

            “Confirmed?”

            “I got eyes on him now. We’re going in.”

            “Be cautious.”

            Colin laughed. “Huh,” he muttered. “Never thought I’d hear that from you, Robin,” and then there were the telltale sounds of a fight beginning, clashing and ringing in Damian’s ear. He hardly moved other than to survey the streets below him; he shot a small dart-like arrow at a suspicious-looking man inching towards a woman walking on the sidewalk before him. The man glanced around and up, alarmed. Seeing Robin’s hunched figure on the roof, he darted off down an alleyway.

            He continued upon his route, using the rooftops instead of his motorcycle, a car, or plane. Dick preferred the plane, to be high above the city and dive down, never with a safety net in place. Much like Damian, Bruce preferred to be at street-level as well, but generally in the car, which provided for every contingency plan he could imagine. There was nothing like, Damian thought, forgetting about the gadgets and becoming a piece of the city, not so inanimate as one of the stone gargoyles his father liked imitating, but closer to the people who define Gotham, who too often were characterized by their grossest parts.

            Still listening to the fight going on not far away from him, Colin’s heavy breathing in his ear, Damian stole along the rooftops. His path coincided with the same woman from before, and he stopped, watching her walk steadily underneath a busted streetlight, heading to wherever she needed to go in the dark. He thumbed a button, turning down the sound in his ear but not turning it off completely. About to move on, he paused, eyes narrowing in the darkness, mask lenses picking up threatening movement.

            The man who’d been scared off before leapt out from the shadows, and Damian instantly shot to the ground, readying himself for a punch to be thrown with a little bit more force than strictly necessary, and then he stopped, confused; the woman straightened up and looked around at him, holding a spray can of Mace, and the man was clutching his face and writhing painfully on the ground, but Damian did not move to handcuff him or call the police, he simply stood there as quiet screaming rang out around him, but he could not place it. Wildly, he glanced around, then asked the woman lowly, “Are you all right, ma’am?” and the second he spoke it became clear what it was; quickly and aggressively, he bound the man, pointed to the woman and said, “Call 911,” then disappeared into the darkness of an alleyway, pressing his fingers to his ear, turning the sound of the commlink up.

            “Abuse,” he said loudly, leaning with one arm against the wall of a building. “Abuse, do you read me? Are you all right? Do you need assistance? Abuse?”

            A short scream, and then a crackling silence.

            “Abuse,” repeated Damian. “Colin?”

            Nothing.

            The darkness closed in around him, the commlink dead in his ear.


	7. Kriegspiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kriegspiel
> 
> A popular chess variant in which players do not know the moves of the other and determine their moves based on limited information from a monitoring umpire. This variant of the game is sometimes referred to as blind chess, but should not be confused with blindfold chess.

            “No,” said Damian, stopping his motorcycle in the Cave and getting off. He removed his helmet, then pressed two fingers to his ear, readjusting the commlink there, and continued, “Please get some sleep. You’re no good to me burnt out. Yes. I will.”

            He stopped abruptly, and turned away slightly, facing the bike, the opposite direction of his father, who sat with the huge computer before him. Lowering his voice, Damian added, “I know. I love you too. Do come. For me, if nothing else.”

            Finally, he turned around and slowly ascended the steps to the computer platform. Everything from the way he moved to the tense misery in his face spoke of abject exhaustion. Ignoring his father, he continued to the steps up into the Manor, but Bruce stopped him.

            “Damian,” he said.

            He stopped, and even though he was not facing his father, Bruce imagined Damian’s expression of utter distaste which he knew so well. “Yes?”

            For a moment, Bruce said nothing, and then: “I’m sorry.”

            Damian didn’t move.

            “Had I not insisted that you leave your team-”

            At this, Damian turned. Meeting his father’s gaze, he said, “I’ve never been one for penance, Father.”

            Bruce’s expression was hard and steely, but not cold. “I want to express,” he said, “that I am fully invested in assisting to find your friend.”

            “We’ll take care of it,” said Damian, cutting him off. “Lucas is already filing a missing person’s report. And none of them will rest until they have him back.”

            Bruce watched him. Then he said, “If there’s anything I can do…”

            “There isn’t,” said Damian simply. “They don’t want you involved.” He paused, then added, “Frankly, neither do I.”

            This stung Bruce, but he did not press his son.

            Turning around to continue up the stairs, Damian added, “You should know this will affect both aspects of my life. Colin is my friend both in and out of uniform.”

            “I know.”

            “You take care of the city,” said Damian, his voice hard. “We’ll find him. On our own.”

            He disappeared into the Manor, leaving Bruce alone.

            It was hardly past dawn as he entered the house, shedding his boots at the entrance to the Cave, and, taking his time removing his cape, mask, and gloves, he headed up to his room. Tim was still home, awaiting Damian’s day in court, but Dick was gone; he’d claimed he had urgent business in Chicago. Damian was still unused to his eldest brother being farther than a few hours away in New York, and it unsettled him. Fatigue settled into Damian’s bones, in many ways, he knew, more mental than physical, and despite himself he began to wish that Dick was around. There was always a certain degree of steadiness with Dick, restoring Damian a sort of curative balance that kept him calm, level, and in control. Damian ached for that constancy. It was the same feeling he used to have with the Titans, and which he now shared with Ellen and the others. Especially, he thought, the ache cresting painfully in his chest, with Colin.

            Reaching his room, he dropped his cape and mask unceremoniously, and stripped off his tunic, letting out a deep breath. There were about two hours before he had another engagement, and he didn’t anticipate more than an hour of sleep, but to drift off now would be a sweet release, and something that he dearly needed.

            About to fall into bed, he stopped, freezing stock-still.

            Resting on his pillow lay a white chess piece, the same color as the fabric beneath. Slowly, he reached out and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He turned on the lamp beside his bed, inspecting the thing. It appeared to be from the same set as the pieces found in the victims’ mouths, except it was not a pawn.

            Damian held the white rook tightly in his hand, fury bubbling in his stomach, mixing with something more distinctly foreign. Something that burned him deeply, something that made him angry and intolerant, sour and rank. Something like fear.

\----

            “And, Mister Wayne,” the lawyer began, a pad of paper balanced on his knee, addressing Tim, sitting before him, “how long has – ah – Mister Wayne-” he glanced at Damian, in an armchair adjacent, scratching the ears of the cat sitting on his lap, visibly irritated, “been working for your organization?”

            “He’s been on salary for about a year,” answered Tim, almost as annoyed as Damian, “but that’s public record.”

            “He’s been working at Neon Knights for one year?”

            “He did some work prior to that,” said Tim impatiently. “He was an intern for a senior partner for something like three years. He designed the – the Martha Wayne Building, I think it was. That was almost four years ago.” Tim glanced at Damian for confirmation, who nodded unhappily.

            “When did,” the lawyer continued, glancing at his notes; addressing Damian, he restarted. “When did you start managing the Foundation’s finances?”

            “Last March,” replied Damian, scratching the cat’s ears maybe a little too aggressively. “We have a whole financial team, I’ll add. It’s not as if it’s just myself.”

            “OK,” said the lawyer. “Is there anyone who may hold a grudge against you? Someone who might try to frame you for embezzlement?”

            “No,” sneered Damian immediately. “No. No one.”

            Tim began, “There’s probably _someone_ -” but Damian interrupted him.

            “No,” he said resolutely. “Not anyone that I’ve ever worked with. The people who run the Neon Knights Foundation have consistently exceeded my expectations, and I don’t believe any of them would have ever done something like this.” After a thoughtful pause, he added, “Myself included.”

            “Well,” said Tim levelly, trying to stop his teeth from grinding in frustration, “clearly _somebody_ did.”

            Damian leaned back in the armchair, refusing to meet Tim’s gaze. “I can’t be convicted on that basis alone, though, can I?” he asked. “So if that’s all they have-”

            “It’s not,” said Tim coldly.

            There was a short silence. The lawyer looked in between the two men, the air in the parlor room of Wayne Manor suddenly heavy and electric, and then he continued, “Let’s move on. Now the prosecution has some information, it seems, regarding an offshore account in…Gibraltar, is it?”

            “Oh, please,” muttered Damian, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. “Everyone is _so_ concerned with Gibraltar.”

            “Offshore accounts are pretty incriminating on their own, Damian,” said Tim, his voice hard. “And you’ve barely told us anything. So yeah, let’s talk about Gibraltar.”

            For a moment, Damian was silent. The cat meowed, then leapt off Damian’s lap, scurrying away. “It’s a trust fund,” he said stonily. “From my mother’s side of the family.”

            “Alright,” said the lawyer. “I’m sure there are financial records to prove that everything is-”

            “That’s very presumptuous,” said Damian, a challenge in his hard voice. “I hardly think it’s necessary to publicize any extraneous information about that account. I see no reason why.”

            “For the purposes of defense,” explained the lawyer, trying to sound sympathetic, “it’s better if we’re totally transparent about things.”

            “No,” said Damian simply. “That is my money. I am not required to share the ways in which I spend it with anyone.”

            “I’d be more inclined to believe that,” shot back Tim, “if you would reassure us you _weren’t_ using it for some massively illegal operations.”

            “I’m not,” replied Damian, glancing at Tim, his voice ice-cold. “I’ve said already. It’s for work abroad.”

            “Yes,” said the exasperated lawyer, “you have indeed said that several times already. If you could maybe specify what _kind_ of work abroad…”

            “No,” said Damian stubbornly. “It’s my business, and none of your concern. I can promise you that it has no relevancy to this trial, or any of the slanderous accusations which have been slung my way.”

            Tim sighed, then began, “Can you give up like an _inch_ of whatever it is you’re hiding, just so we can get through this with minimal suspicion?”

            “No,” repeated Damian. “I resent being put under a microscope. All of this is merely a product of an overzealous system of justice and people putting their noses where they should stay clear out of-”

            “Damian.”

            All three of them looked up suddenly. Standing at the doorway, the same little black-and-white cat twisting itself around his ankles, Bruce watched Damian with darkened eyes. He nodded his head out of the room, gesturing for Damian to join him. After a moment’s hesitation, Damian let out an irritated breath and got up, leaving the room with his father. Closing the door behind them, they hung in the hallway, standing opposite one another.

            Meeting his father’s gaze, arms crossed tightly over his chest, Damian began, “If you’re about to reprimand me, just let me remind you that I am twenty-two years old and no longer a child whom you can _intimidate_ so easily-”

            “Ellen called,” said Bruce. “She wanted to know if you made arrangements for the protection of her grandparents.”

            Silence hung between them. Damian loosened his arms slightly, tearing his eyes from his father’s to glance down the hallway self-consciously. “I did,” he said quietly.

            “Good,” replied Bruce. “I told her I would set more into place.”

            Neither of them said anything.

            Finally, Bruce added, “You could have asked before you invited her to stay with us.”

            “I knew you would’ve agreed,” Damian shot back, before the words had even completely left Bruce’s mouth. “I wasn’t aware I had to ask permission for the woman I’m engaged to marry to stay in my house.”

            Bruce didn’t reply right away. Then, slowly, he began, “All I want is for you to-”

            The door opened suddenly, and the lawyer appeared. “Gentlemen,” he said, nodding to Bruce and Damian, then he swept away. The two men glanced back at the door, where Tim stood. At Bruce’s expectant look, he explained, “I thought we were pretty much done for the day.”

            Bruce looked at Tim for a moment longer, then, in a rare expression of emotion, he raised a hand to his face and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Boys,” he said, looking gravely at both his sons, “we are _days_ away from court.”

            “I understand that,” scoffed Damian. “But these lawyers grow increasingly tedious. I still don’t see why you won’t allow me to represent myself-”

            “I have a question,” said Tim loudly, cutting Damian off before he could continue. Damian fell silent, locking eyes with Tim defiantly. “That Gibraltar account,” continued Tim. “You’re seriously hurting yourself and our defense by keeping mum about it. Can you just tell me what you do with your mom’s money? How bad can it possibly be?”

            Neither Damian nor Bruce looked away from Tim, although immediately the air sharpened slightly, stiffening with the immense self-control it took for neither of them to look at one another, tinged with the acute awareness of the dangerous possibilities of the answer to Tim’s tauntingly traitorous question.

            “I told you,” Damian said quietly, but no less impatiently. “I have business ventures in Europe.”

            “Oh yeah?” asked Tim. “What kind of ventures? Do I even want to know?”

            “It’s _my_ business.”

            “You should’ve thought about that before you stole from me-”

            “I didn’t steal anything from you,” said Damian heatedly, his voice rising. “What purpose could I possibly have for a million dollars? My mother’s idea of the _occasional present_ is gifts of fifty times that-”

            “I don’t know, Damian,” said Tim loudly, a threat in his voice. “I have no idea why you’d want to take money out of a _charity_ , but your financial dealings seem pretty shady if you ask me, what with this mysterious offshore account for,” he imitated Damian, exaggerating his slight accent, “ _business in Europe_ -”

            Ripping his gaze from Tim, Damian murmured, “Dammit,” then rolled his eyes to the heavens in a desperate look of discomfort. He shifted uncomfortably, then leaned back against the wall behind him in an expression of defeat. Without looking at Tim or Bruce, aggression in his voice, he finally admitted, “It’s Iris.”

            At this, Bruce also looked to his son. Tim didn’t move from the door, but narrowed his eyes slightly. “What is?”

            “I’ve been funding Iris,” said Damian bluntly. “She and Lian have been working in Europe since the Titans were disbanded. I’ve been funding them for the past few years.”

            Tim didn’t say anything immediately, cautiously glancing at Bruce, as if expecting him to speak. When he did not, Tim carefully asked, “Iris West? As in, your girlfriend Iris West?”

            “I can say with some great confidence that neither she nor I still consider her as such,” said Damian impatiently. “But, yes. _That_ Iris West.”

            The quiet hung between the three of them. Tim wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind. He glanced almost helplessly at Bruce, who seemed to be taking it all in very slowly. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, and Tim felt a little surge of expectant hope that Bruce would be on his side. Instead of scolding Damian, however, he only rumbled, “When was your last monetary transfer?”

            Damian’s gaze snapped back to his father. “About a month ago,” he muttered begrudgingly. “After what happened with…” he paused, glancing at Tim, as if he didn’t want to disclose something, but Tim was well aware of what he meant: Iris West’s disappearance, due to her own speed. Damian turned back to his father, and there was something pleading in his eye. “Lian needed funds to start her own search. Of course I’m concerned for Iris’s wellbeing, and I believe that if anyone is going to bring her back down, it’s Lian. So naturally I granted her request, and supplied her with the means necessary.”

            “Hold on,” said Tim. “Lian Harper?”

            “Yes, Timothy,” replied Damian impatiently. “Do try to keep up.”

            “Uh,” began Tim, looking in between father and son incredulously. “Are we just _forgetting_ about the part where she tried to _kill you_ last time you saw her?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Damian disdainfully. “She was drugged.”

            “But she _did_ try to kill you, though?”

            “And likely would have, if not for Iris’s timely intervention,” added Damian irascibly. “So one can understand why I am so concerned with her safety. It would…repay a debt, as it were.”

            “Oh, right,” murmured Tim. “I’m sure that’s the only reason. You do realize you’re engaged to somebody else, right?”

            At that moment, the front doorbell rang through the house. Tim and Damian watched each other for a moment, both refusing to look away, until Tim finally tore his eyes away.

            “Speak of the Devil,” said Tim, with a venomous little shrug.

            Damian lunged half-heartedly towards Tim, but Bruce just tiredly held out an arm to stop him. With one last fierce look at his father, Damian headed down the hallway in the opposite direction; as he descended the steps to the front hall, he passed Alfred, who began, “It’s for you,” before Damian murmured, “I know,” and continued down to see Ellen standing before the tall front doors, a very small suitcase beside her. When she saw him, she did not quite smile, something grim and tired in her eyes, but she greeted him with a familiar kiss, her hand hovering just above his waist.

            “Thank you for coming,” he said to her, his voice low. “I would offer a home to the whole team if they would let me.”

            “I don’t think they’d do so well cooped up in a big house like this,” replied Ellen. She glanced around, looking vaguely intimidated by the ornate front hall. “Too far removed from the city for them. Especially now.”

            “We’ll be working from here,” said Damian earnestly. “Just a temporary change in home base, I hope.”

            She watched him for a moment, then her eyes slid behind him, something infinitesimally miniscule changing in her expression. His own face hardening, he still stared at her for a second longer, then turned, an obviously forced smile on his lips.

            Bruce was descending the stairs slowly, his own pretend-smile slightly unnerving in its scope. He extended a hand and took hers graciously. “Ellen,” he said. “Welcome. Please make yourself at home. All our resources both in and below the house are yours.”

            “Thank you for your hospitality, Bruce,” she replied, with a little bowing nod. “I hope my staying here isn’t too disruptive.”

            “Certainly.” Bruce glanced between them, his eyes flickering to Damian for half a second. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”

            He slipped away without another word, and Damian muttered, “As always,” to Ellen. Whether Bruce heard or not, he did not turn around. “Come,” he said, taking the small suitcase beside her. “We have work as well.”

            Before they started up the stairs, someone cleared their throat, and Alfred appeared. “Miss Ellen,” he said, with a very proper English bow. “A delight to have you here.” He added, “If I could borrow your fiancé for one moment…”

            With Ellen’s consent, Damian stepped aside with Alfred. “Is everything all right?” he asked, concerned.

            “Oh, yes,” replied Alfred. “It’s merely that…” he glanced at Ellen. “Your father won’t say this, so I suppose I must.” Despite himself, Damian felt a little twinge of self-conscious alarm, like an insecure teenager. Leaning in, Alfred said lowly, “Please do take the master bedroom. It has been far too long since this house has seen an engagement, much less a marriage. And I believe it would suit the two of you.” He looked at Damian with a sort of approving twinkle in his eye, and Damian nodded gratefully.

            The room itself was large and luxurious. Although well-cleaned by Alfred’s careful hand, the bed was cold and had an odd air of age which was absent from the rest of the house. Damian had spent nearly all his years at the Manor in his single bedroom, now filled with a warmth and vitality and a host of memories. But in some indefinable way, it was reassuring to escape from that – especially with Ellen by his side.

            “Are your brothers here?” asked Ellen, opening the suitcase on the bed.

            “Only Tim,” replied Damian, picking up a black-and-white framed photo of Martha and Thomas Wayne. “He’ll be here for the whole trial.” From the white dress his grandmother wore, he assumed it was from their wedding day. “Dick had to return to Chicago. I suppose it’s not as if he can put his life completely on hold just for me.” He replaced the photo on the dresser, then added, “I do have a sister as well, you know. In the legal sense, at least.”

            “I’ve never met her,” replied Ellen. “Will she be coming down for the trial?”

            “I doubt it,” said Damian. “She rarely returns to Gotham anymore. You would like her, though. She’s a good woman.”

            There was little for Ellen to unpack, but there was a silence between them for a moment as Damian slipped around the room, inspecting the old vanity mirror, the oak trunk at the foot of the bed. He disappeared into the bathroom, and she continued going through her belongings on the bed.

            After a minute or so, from the bathroom Damian called, “Ellen, come here for a moment.”

            She obliged, setting down the clothes she was holding and following him into the large, ornate bathroom, closing the door behind her. He was hanging something from the ceiling, pressing a few buttons to activate it. Leaning against the door, she watched him until he let go of the thing and looked at her.

            “You said you had something to show me?” she asked, and he could hear the skepticism in her tone.

            “Yes,” he replied. “But lower your voice.” Gesturing towards the device hanging from the ceiling, he added, “It’s a damper, but it’s not foolproof. Just enough that we should be able to converse without being observed.”

            She strode towards him, her voice quieter. “You think your father has his parents’ old bedroom bugged?” she asked dubiously.

            “Absolutely,” replied Damian. “I would be shocked if he didn’t. You already understand the level of his psychosis when it comes to control. He routinely bugged my bedroom when I was younger, and I routinely found the bugs and threw a tantrum about it, until Alfred eventually sat us both down for an intervention of sorts.” He smiled fondly, bitterly, at the memory.

            She hooked her arms around his neck. “Isn’t that just a little creepy?” she asked, her voice hardly above a whisper. “I don’t want anyone spying on us while we sleep.”

            “Well,” said Damian fairly, “no. I’ll speak to him about that. As long as he trusts you, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

            Ellen raised her eyebrows, slightly surprised and maybe a little offended. “You don’t think he trusts me?” she asked.

            “No,” replied Damian simply. “He doesn’t trust anyone. Yours truly included.”

            For another moment, she watched him with a look of something bordering on concern in her face, and then she asked again, “So what was it you need to show me?”

            Pulling slightly away from her, Damian dipped his hand into his pocket and extracted something small, holding it out before her. Ellen took it, inspecting the chess piece carefully.

            “Just like the pawns we found on the bodies,” she said, scrutinizing the thing. “Where did you find this?”

            “In my room,” said Damian grimly. “Lying on my pillow, the night Colin was abducted.”

            There was a silence. Ellen turning the thing over in her hands. “In your home? In this house?”

            “Yes,” responded Damian.

            Ellen handed the piece back to him. “And I thought you invited me here just because you liked me.”

            Taking the white rook and holding it in his fist, Damian continued, “I need help. And as positive as I am of the innocence of my family, something like this worries me.” She watched him thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her chin. He continued, “I checked all the security footage, for intruder alarms, and nothing. No indication that anything out of the ordinary happened in the house until I came home and found this.”

            Ellen considered this, her eyes shifting to where he held the chess piece between his thumb and forefinger. “Guess you really shouldn’t have removed those bugs from your room, huh?” she asked. He said nothing, waiting for something else. She asked, “So what are we doing? Investigating your family without tipping them off? That’ll be easy. Not like they’re incredibly intelligent and perceptive or anything.”

            “Not exactly,” said Damian.

            She almost smiled. “Oh?” she asked. “What was your plan, then?”

            “I need you here,” he said seriously, meeting her gaze gravely, “because I need someone to watch my back. Everywhere. Including inside my home.”

            Slowly, her smile melted away. Nodding, she took one of his hands. “I can do that,” she said. “I promise I won’t let anything hurt you during the twenty minutes a day you sleep.” When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “So we’re assuming that whoever gave you this piece is responsible for all the murders, and therefore for taking Colin as well. Right?” Dimly, Damian nodded. “So if whoever it is has access to your house, your _bedroom_ , in fact, then here is probably the best place to be, for the investigation.” Still, Damian said nothing. Ellen took his hand which held the chess piece, and looked at the thing on his palm. “It’s kind of weird, though,” she remarked. “You’d think this would go to, I don’t know, Lucas, or something. He’s the one who lives with Colin.” She glanced up at Damian. “Why you?”

            Removing his hand from her touch, he replied, “It seems like something personal. A vendetta of sorts.” He held up the piece. “I don’t think this is the end. It’s almost like a challenge, or a tease. Notice the rook. Not a knight, a bishop, a king.” He paused, then solemnly added, “That leaves more than few pieces open for future attacks.”

            Ellen stared at the piece, something almost loving in her eye. Quietly, she said, “Like a queen.”

            He nodded. “My secondary reason for asking you to stay here.”

            She watched him for a moment, then said, “Let’s just focus on finding Colin. The sooner we find him, the sooner we’ll catch whoever’s doing this, and everything will be over.”

            Damian stared at the white rook in his hand. “I should know,” he murmured. “I should know who’s doing this to me.”

            “You don’t,” said Ellen pointedly, “so that’s a moot point. And _you_ weren’t the one who was abducted, Damian, it’s not as if you’re the victim here.”

            He said nothing to this.

            “Now take that thing down,” she continued, nodding towards the damper. “And unbutton a little, or something. If your father is bugging the room, we need a reason for inexplicably hiding out in the bathroom for a few minutes.”

            Tucking the chess piece back into his pocket, with his typical charming arrogance coming back, Damian said, “I don’t think he’ll question it. I do have a reputation, you know.” She half-laughed as he removed the damper from the ceiling, and together they spilled back into the room.

            The following evening, as night fell on Gotham City, Damian took Ellen down to the Cave, scouring information from the computer for any indication as to where Colin might be, reviewing security footage from across the city, keeping a line open to Spoiler, Lux, and the others, anxiously waiting for news. Tim was working on the holographic table adjacent to the computer, his work projected over the desk; he occasionally reached into the complex map of light to rearrange something, or call something else up. He kept glancing back at where Damian worked with Ellen, listening to them discuss in low tones where to go next.

            “You’ve already checked up on Scarecrow, right?” asked Tim, unable to stay silent. “That’s the first thing I would’ve done.”

            Ellen glanced back at Tim, but before she could say anything, Damian raised his voice to reply, “That _was_ the first thing we did.”

            “Crane’s still in Arkham,” added Ellen, meeting Tim’s eye. “Everything on that end’s been silent since before this started. We made sure.”

            Turning back to his own work, Tim nodded. “OK,” he said. “Just checking.”

            A muted ringing sound filled the Cave; Damian hit a few buttons and it stopped. “My father’ll get that,” he muttered, before going back to monitoring.

            After a few more moments of hushed conversation, Ellen said thoughtfully, “Damian, maybe we’re looking in the wrong place. Colin’s abduction is a logical progression of the murders, but you said yourself the chess pieces imply a much bigger game. Don’t you think we should be-”

            “Damian,” came a voice from behind them; Ellen turned, but Damian did not. Bruce was coming down the stairs, holding a high-tech communicator in his hand. Ellen touched Damian’s shoulder and, reluctantly, he turned as well. The expression on Bruce’s face was unreadable, but he held the small phone out. Smoothly, he said, “You have a phone call.”

            Warily, Damian glanced at the phone, then at Bruce. “Who is it?” he asked, taking it from Bruce’s hand.

            With a shake of his head so small it was nearly imperceptible, Bruce replied, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” At the look Damian gave him, he said quietly, wearily, “It’s your mother.”

            The silence in the Cave instantly became heavy. Glancing from Bruce to Damian, concern blossomed behind Ellen’s eyes, and her hand fluttered out to touch him gently on the arm. Tim pretended he didn’t hear, although he’d stopped moving completely to listen to the short exchange. Damian stared at his father for a moment, then put the phone to his ear, shrugging off Ellen’s touch.

            As he crossed the platform, heading for the steps down into the bowels of the Cave, Damian asked, “Mother?” and then after a pause, he glanced around at the rest of them, and then began to speak another language – Arabic, by the sound of it. Ellen doubted that this made it any more difficult for Bruce to understand his conversation, but after another moment, and a gentle nod her way, he disappeared back into the Manor. She could still hear the quick, guttural sounds of Damian’s words, growing fainter as he continued away; although she could not understand what he was saying, she was sure she caught the word _Mama_.

            Over by the holo-desk, Tim was back to work. Glancing at Ellen, a look of distaste on his face, he said, “Did you know he’s not even half Arab?” He looked back at the display before him uttering, something under his breath. “He just uses it because he knows it’s like the _one_ language he speaks that I don’t.” He shook his head irritably. “And he knows it annoys me.”

            Ellen pretended she didn’t find this amusing. “Does she contact him often?” she asked.

            “Nah,” answered Tim. “I mean, before this year we hadn’t heard from her since he was like thirteen. Bruce and her talk more than she does with Damian.”

            Her fingers resting just above the computer’s control panel, Ellen watched the stairs down which Damian had left, caution settling in her bones.

            Damian continued down into the Cave until he was sure he was far enough away that Tim and Ellen couldn’t hear him, then he stopped, leaning against the hood of one of the cars. “No, I do not need bribery money,” he replied impatiently, lapsing back into English. “In the event that I _do_ need any, which I absolutely will not, I’m sure that the Wayne family has quite enough. Anyway, Mother, I have a question for you.”

            “You should have called me immediately,” she said, her voice sharp. “A _legal_ team,” she spat it, with derision, “is nothing compared to my resources.”

            “Mother. You know the Gibraltar account?”

            “Your Gibraltar account? Of course I do. It’s still mostly mine, considering how little you use it.”

            “I have a question about the funds.”

            “What is your question?”

            “Where do they come from?”

            She let out a barking laugh. “Darling, you don’t really want to know that.”

            “I do,” he said. “I do want to know. It could be crucial information.”

            “Don’t worry yourself,” she said. “It doesn’t come from anywhere around you or your father’s family.”

            “You mean my family,” said Damian stoically, with an inaudible sigh. “My father’s family is _my_ family.”

            “Has your father threated a countersuit yet?” asked Talia suspiciously. “He should have immediately. It shows a lack of responsibility-”

            “I don’t think there’s any need for that,” answered Damian. “Please don’t get involved. I’m asking you, as your son – I’m _begging_ you-”

            Talia let out a dissatisfied noise of contempt. “No son of mine would beg his mother.”

            “Don’t let this spiral into a twisted denial of familial relation. It will inevitably result in a schism, and I have no desire to go down that path with you again.”

            There was a short, humming silence on his mother’s end. “You are quite the celebrity lately.”

            With a sigh of defeat, Damian said, “I hardly think charges of white collar crime constitute _celebrity_ , Mother.”

            “That’s not what I mean.”

            His heart seemed to slow in his chest, each beat abnormally long, leaving him acutely uncomfortable. The idea of his mother seeing the images captured on video – utter mortification sank into his stomach, mixed with something that made him feel vaguely ill. He pressed his lips together, then began, his voice lowered, “I in no way need to hear your disapproval, Mother, I’m well aware of what I’m sure you’d like to say to me.”

            “Are you.”

            “I am. And I am also humiliated enough as it is, so if you could, for once in our relationship, forego the whole _lineage of my father_ speech and deal with the fact that I made a mistake, I would appreciate that.”

            There was a pause on the other end. Then – and Damian could hear the amusement in her voice – she asked, “I take it you’ve cancelled the engagement?”

            He blinked. “What?” he asked. “No. With Ellen? No.” He hesitated, then repeated, “What?”

            “Is that not what you were talking about?”

            “No,” he said, sounding scandalized but inwardly letting out a long breath of relief. Maybe she didn’t know about the video at all. “No, I thought you were – nevermind.”

            “Your fiancée is unimpressive,” said Talia bluntly, sounding disappointed. “And I had such high hopes for you. She is hardly worthy of bearing your children.”

            “Your concern is noted, Mother,” replied Damian. “But fortunately I don’t anticipate any childbearing in the near future.” If Talia caught the sarcasm in his voice, she did not acknowledge it.

            Dubiously, she asked, “And your father approves?”

            “I understand you have no way of knowing this,” he said candidly, “but I’m at the point with my father where I have genuinely stopped caring about his opinion. You may be familiar with the feeling. I reached that point with you when I was eleven.”

            “You are so unkind to your mother,” said Talia, but he could hear a sly smile in her voice. “You should have at least informed me of the engagement.”

            “We didn’t inform anyone,” answered Damian. “Not until the public announcement.”

            “You _will_ invite me to the wedding,” she added. “Or I will have the hors d’oeuvres poisoned.”

            “I refuse to let you close enough to my wife-to-be to express your disappointment in her childbearing abilities.”

            “It doesn’t matter to me whether the woman can _bear_ a child, God knows I didn’t carry you in my womb for nine months, it’s merely whether your hypothetical children would be of any use to me.”

            “I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my hypothetical children.”

            “You would be incorrect.”

            “To prevent you from performing genetic experiments on my child?”

            “Enhancements,” corrected Talia, “not experiments.”

            Damian glanced back up towards the computer platform, where Ellen was no doubt still at work. “This conversation is over,” he said. “I have important business to attend to.”

            “As do I,” she replied. “You know me very well, and you know that I respect nothing if not love, and for that reason I will not object to your union with this commoner.”

            “Mother,” he said, and he would have rolled his eyes if she could have seen it, “we are not _royalty_.”

            “We are almost,” she replied decisively. “In any case, regardless of your foolhardy marital status, I have selected several women with which you could produce a genetically perfect child, my modifications notwithstanding.” Damian uttered an oath under his breath, shaking his head as Talia continued. “My first choice shouldn’t be entirely difficult for you, considering she is – well – legally your sister, I suppose.”

            “I will keep your offer in mind,” said Damian, cutting her off before she could continue, “in case I ever feel the burning desire to contribute my genes towards your depraved eugenics experiments.”

            Something like a low laugh came from the other end of the line. “You are a good boy, Damian,” she purred, and the irony in her tone burned him. “But you are woefully underestimating your mother if you don’t think I harvested enough genetic material to manufacture your offspring-”

            “Goodbye, Mother,” he said forcefully, and then he took the communicator away from his ear and ended the call. For a second he stood there, holding the thing, but before he moved a different ringing went off, and he let out a frustrated sigh of annoyance, digging into his pocket, then aggressively jammed his personal phone to his ear. “Mother,” he said heatedly. “I have asked you repeatedly not to call me on my personal line, and I do not care to hear you propose any more potential mates, do you understand?”

            There was a hesitation on the line, then, “Um, OK?”

            A lead weight fell into Damian’s stomach, making him feel slightly nauseous. “Lian,” he said, the tension in his voice breaking, “I apologize, I just-” he paused, took a long breath. Grasping in the dark with only a dim sense of hope, he asked, “I don’t suppose you have similar arguments with your own mother, do you?”

            Something vaguely cheerful returning to Lian’s voice, she responded, “I can’t say I do. Not since I sent her to prison, anyway.”

            He glanced up towards the computer platform again. “Can I help you?”

            “Not feeling chatty?”

            “What would you like to chat about?”

            “I’m just kidding. After how snitty you were last time we talked, I’m not interested in the small-talk thing.”

            He paused, waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked lowly, “Any news on Iris?”

            She did not answer right away, as if weighing his question. Finally, she said simply, “No. You’d have heard about it by now, if there was.”

            “I’d want to hear from you.”

            There was very short and loosely uncomfortable silence; Damian instantly realized the awkwardness of his words, but did not amend them, only closed his eyes for a moment, hoping Lian wouldn’t take it the wrong way. “OK,” said Lian. “Well, the answer is no, and also I wanted to let you know I’m coming back to Gotham.”

            “Why?” asked Damian sharply, opening his eyes. “If you need more money, let me just reiterate that now is not a very good time for me.”

            “I’m not looking for money,” she replied scornfully. “I wanted you to know, I’m coming to your trial.”

            About to say something else, he stopped, taken aback by this. “Why?” he asked again, distrust seeping into his voice.

            “Um, because I give a damn about you? And because if you go to jail, or at least go bankrupt or something, that will seriously impede my ability to do my job.”

            “Touching.”

            “What was that earlier about your mom and potential mates?”

            Damian rubbed his temples. “Lian,” he said, “let’s not even.”

            “Just a heads-up, I’ll be extremely offended if I’m not on that list.”

            “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            “I await your presence at my trial with bated breath.”

            “Same. Or something like that. I’ll keep you posted about Iris, if anything comes up.”

            “I’ll brood indignantly at your ever-staggering indifference towards my well-being.”

            “OK, Damian, whatever. I’ll see you soon, I guess.”

            “I suppose you will. Goodbye.”

            “’Bye.”

            With a _click_ , the call ended. Damian held both devices in his hands, and then a great wave of exhaustion washed over him. He leaned heavily against the car. He could not think of two other people in the world who took more out of him than his mother and Lian, who demanded more of him, and expected more of him. After a few moments, it occurred to him that he should return to where Ellen was no doubt still at work without him, but he did not immediately move, and instead stood there unevenly, his jaw unconsciously working, teeth grinding together in a collision of emotion, expectation, and disappointment.

\----

            “Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

            The courtroom was not silent; his ears attuned to any sound out of the ordinary, Damian could hear every shift and cough and movement that betrayed the full audience, from his father, sitting stonily on the front bench, to Tim beside him, glancing in between Damian and Bruce, to Ellen, her eyes unmoving, staring ahead, fixed on Damian before her. The doors had cracked open just enough for a woman to slip through at the last moment, and she hung at the back of the large, ornate courtroom, arms folded across her chest, unapologetic pink hair curled perfectly out of her face. Damian didn’t meet her dark eyes, but saw her lips twitch just slightly when his gaze passed over her. He would have nodded towards her in acknowledgement, had all eyes not been on him; under the spotlight, as it were, he knew that Lian felt the weight of his not-look towards her, and he hoped she understood more than he could have possibly conveyed.

            The room was thick and heavy with anticipation, hanging just above their heads, like the feet of a man hanging from a noose. Damian did not flinch nor bow his head at their attention. His eyes came to a stop upon the woman sitting with the prosecution. His face was expressionless except for a slight movement at the corner of his lips, unnoticeable to most of the room apart from the three sitting in the front row and the one woman standing at the back, arms folded, all of whom saw the tiny betrayal of Damian’s disdain for the woman and the proceedings.

            The woman sitting at the desk looked up from the folder before her, a frozen, mechanical smile on her face, and Damian’s gaze wandered on.

            Quietly, his eyes raking across the room, Damian replied, “So help me God.”


	8. Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge
> 
> An edge is a small but meaningful advantage in the position against one's opponent. It is often said White has an edge in the starting position, since he moves first (see First-move advantage in chess).

            There was an energy crackling around the courtroom, electric and palpable; this had already become, Damian thought, something much more than what it was supposed to be. The first question Sophia Moss asked would be the first stripping wound, blood in the water. He thought he was ready, but then again, Ms. Moss had already formed a habit of surprising him.

            Ms. Moss, her eyes gleaming with something in between excitement and bloodlust, stood slowly, making her way to stand before Damian. “Mister Wayne,” she said smoothly, and he nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement. “You’ve been working with the Neon Knight Foundation for how long?"

            “A year and a half.”

            “During this time, have you taken any extended leave?”

            Damian shook his head. “No.” He saw Tim glance at Bruce, who did not move. It was an anxious movement, and one that Damian resented; they had established, clearly and many times, exactly what their story was for the past few years. Living the lives that they did, there was much they had to cover up, even if that meant lying in court. They were synced flawlessly, Damian knew. The look on Tim’s face – the uncertainty there – cut him deeply, and unexpectantly.

            The woman slid a piece of paper onto the desk before Damian. “Will you read those dates out loud, please?” Damian did so; he recognized them as the dates of recorded transfers out of the Neon Knights finances. Taking the paper away from him, she asked, “You were present in Gotham for all of these dates?”

            Glancing up at the woman, he nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but I also wasn’t-”

            “Regardless of what you were doing,” she said, holding up a hand to silence him, “you were in Gotham, correct?”

            Damian stared at the woman, her eyes, silently evaluating the purpose of the question, searching for an ulterior motive. He did not glance at Bruce or Tim, and then he replied, shortly, “Yes. I was in Gotham.”

            “And you do not know where any of the missing money went?”

            “No. I don’t.”

            “Do you know of anyone who might have appropriated it?”

            “No,” he said, resolutely.

            “All right,” she said, nodding her head, turning away from him, taking a few pacing steps away from the witness stand. “Thank you.” For a moment, it seemed as if she was done, and Damian watched her, eyes focused warily. And then she turned around to face him again and asked, “Mister Wayne, you have an offshore bank account in Gibraltar, correct?”

            He would have let out a frustrated breath, were all eyes in the courtroom not focused on him. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

            She looked at him smartly, no trace of malice or spite in her eyes. “Where does this money come from?”

            “My trust fund, generally.”

            “Generally?”

            “I have public investments in a number of business ventures,” he replied, clearly and loudly. “If you would like me to list them all right now-”

            “No, thank you,” interrupted Ms. Moss, shaking her head. “That’s not necessary at the moment. For what do you use this money, Mister Wayne?” Before he opened his mouth to reply, she added, her voice emotionless but he could hear the poison behind them, tangible in the space between them, “Humanitarian ventures, perhaps?”

            “Some, yes,” he replied, his tone just as biting. He knew that his father would be angry with him for that, and that his ill-disguised frustration would do nothing to ingratiate him to the jury watching on, but he didn’t care. The sheer arrogance of the woman infuriated him. “Mostly located abroad.”

            “Why specifically abroad?” she asked, almost by rote, as if going through a prepared list of questions. Her hands were clasped neatly behind her back.

            “It’s easier to get money to credible organizations abroad if the money isn’t coming from within the United States,” said Damian. “Due to domestic corruption. Embezzlement. You understand.” To cover all his bases, he added, “I also donate generously to local concerns as well. But it has always been the opinion of Wayne Enterprises that a global mindset is necessary for good.”

            “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Thank you.” She went to her desk and took a sheet of paper off out of a folder, then, her short heels clacking loudly on the floor, she went to Damian again and placed it before him. “Would you please tell us what this is, Mister Wayne?”

            His eyes scanned over the paper before him, and his heart physically seemed to sink, growing smaller, his stomach going sour, a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He did not glance up.

            “This,” he said, “is a bank statement.”

            “Yes,” said Ms. Moss, her words a slight sigh of gratification. “Through which company?”

            A muscle worked in Damian’s jaw; he gritted his teeth, but still did not look up towards the crowd. Slowly, as if struggling to open his mouth and speak the words, he muttered, “Queen Industries.”

            “Good. And to whom is this account registered? Please read directly off the statement, Mister Wayne.”

            He said nothing. He finally looked up, and looked the woman in the eye. Then, his stomach still angry and clenched with dread, he answered clearly, “Lian Jade Harper.”

            “That’s right,” said Ms. Moss, nodding, and Damian had to focus all of his energy not to glance around behind her, to the back of the courtroom where, he knew, Lian sat, her hair bright, bubblegum pink. “Do you know Miz Harper, Mister Wayne?”

            There was no way around this. He watched the woman and did not hesitate too long, although the muscle in his jaw still jumped. “Yes,” he said. “We’ve met.”

            “And you’re…giving money to her? Is she under your employment?”

            “No,” answered Damian.

            “No?” echoed the lawyer. “You’re not funding her?”

            “I am,” said Damian, and he knew that his father would hate him for such a visceral signal of his aggravation but he had to stop and close his eyes for a moment, indignation and rage pulsing through his body. “I am funding her. But I do not employ her.”

            “What precisely it is that you fund?”

            He opened his eyes, stared up at the woman with distaste. “Humanitarian ventures,” he said snidely, mocking her words to him.

            “Humanitarian ventures,” she said, nodding. She looked around, glanced at the jury. “Lian Harper is not a member of any humanitarian organization we could find. Could you be more specific about who it is with which she is affiliated?”

            “She is not,” said Damian, “affiliated with any organization.”

            At that moment, he spared a glance behind the woman, looking to where Bruce, Tim, and Ellen sat. Ellen’s eyes were narrowed slightly, not in suspicion but in genuine confusion; his past, especially concerning Lian, was something he kept private even from her.

            “Well,” began Ms. Moss, her voice becoming rich, drunk with the sound of herself. “Is that completely true, Mister Wayne?”

            Damian’s eyes flickered back to her.

            “Lian Harper is the daughter of Roy Harper,” continued the lawyer. “It is public record that Roy Harper, once known as the vigilante called Red Arrow, is currently emplyed by STAR Labs.” She paused, looking at Damian, as if allowing this to sink in. “But let’s not forget the complete parentage of this young woman, whose undertakings, whatever they may be, _you_ have been enabling.”

            Slowly, infinitesimally, Damian shook his head, everything suddenly becoming very clear. The doors at the back of the courtroom did not open. He did not look, but he knew that, in the back of the room, there still sat a woman with pink hair, frozen in her seat.

             “Lian Harper’s mother,” Ms. Moss began, her voice slow but even, “is Jade Nguyen, a criminal and international terrorist known as Cheshire.” Ms. Moss, her eyes shining, smiled at Damian. “Have you been funding a terrorist, Mister Wayne?”

            “Objection!” called Damian’s lawyer, from the table. “Your Honor, counsel is misstating the evidence.”

            Hardly glancing up at the other lawyer, the judge replied, “The jury has heard the evidence and can determine what the evidence was. Overruled.” They nodded to Ms. Moss. “Continue.”

            She nodded; before she could speak again, Damian said, “She’s _not_ a terrorist.”

            “Regardless,” said Ms. Moss, dipping her head in a nod. “You have been providing funds to Lian Jade Harper?”

            “It’s not-”

            “A ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ please, Mister Wayne.”

            Damian watched her, seething. Between gritted teeth, he uttered, “Yes.”

            She looked at him for a long time, then she smiled again. Turning back to pace once again, she continued, “Now we have established what kinds of things Mister Wayne – Junior, of course-” she added, her gaze raking over Bruce, “supports with his funds, shall we take a look at the man himself?”

            Damian stared at her. She glanced back at him, her eyes full of a glowing fire, and that smile still peeling back her lips.

            Slowly, she took a few steps towards him. “You did not know your father as a child, did you?”

            A sinking, creeping feeling began to crawl up Damian’s spine. He resisted the urge to glance at Bruce. Simply, he said, “No.”

            “You lived with your mother?”

            “Objection!” cried Damian’s lawyer again. “Your Honor, this is irrelevant-”

            “Overruled,” said the judge, who then glanced at the lawyer, blinking up securely. “Miz Moss, please make your point.”

            “I will be more direct,” she said, looking back to Damian. Her unrelenting smile became unnerving, and Damian hated her for it. He knew exactly what she was going to ask next, and, in that moment, he loathed every inch of this woman’s being. Wildly violent thoughts pounded into his head, unavoidably piercing his mind – he wanted to throw himself at this woman, to throttle her, to attack her – and he tore his gaze away from her in shame, disgust settling in his lungs, although at her or himself, he could not quite say.

            “Mister Wayne,” began Ms. Moss, and Damian saw himself clawing out her eyes, breaking the flat bones of her face, tearing out her throat; “your mother is Talia Head, previously of LexCorp, correct?”

            He met her gaze flatly. “Yes,” he said. “She is.”

            “And you’re sure of this?”

            His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he didn’t understand exactly what she meant. His voice cold and arresting, he said directly, “Ma’am, if you’d like to question the legitimacy of my conception, my father is sitting right there.” Without looking up, packing as much venom as he could into so few words, he added, “I’ve been told he was present at the time.”

            The smile on her face didn’t falter, but her expression became harder, her edges becoming sharp and jagged. As what he’d just said washed over him, Damian clenched his jaw, knowing that his father would be furious.

            “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, her voice softer and infinitely more threatening, the smile becoming something born out of patience.

            Damian looked up at her, and he knew she saw the hatred in his eyes.

            “You must also know, then,” said Sophia Moss gently; to someone who did not know the significance – for most of the audience, indeed – she seemed to be breaking awful news to him, with as much kindness as she could, considering the circumstances, “that Talia _Head_ is merely a poorly-conceived pseudonym for Talia al _Ghul_ , a known international supercriminal.”

            He watched her, his head cocked to the side slightly. She did not flinch away, but she also no longer had that smile on her lips; there was strikingly insincere concern reflected in her eyes. Damian answered, quietly, “Yes.”

            She blinked at him, gestured to her ear. “What’s that?”

            “I did know that,” he said, louder.

            “Yes,” she said, nodding. “I thought so. Have you had any contact with your mother since you began to work for the Neon Knights Foundation?”

            Before she had even finished her question, he shook his head. “No. I have not.”

            “You have not…?”

            “I have not seen my mother since I started work with Neon Knights.”

            “When was the last time you saw her?”

            He stared at her. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes scanning around the courtroom glumly. “Ten years, maybe.”

            “Ten years?”

            “Something like that.”

            “Not recently, though?” she asked. “Certainly not in the past, say, five years?”

            He looked back at her; while looking around the room, he had seen his father’s face, more reserved and perhaps more stern than he usually was in public, but otherwise unmoved. “No,” he said, his voice smooth and quiet again. “Not within five years.”

            She nodded, as if this were exactly what she was expecting, and then she dug something out of a folder and laid it before Damian. “When was this photo taken, Mister Wayne?” she asked, clearly.

            For a moment, Damian could do nothing but stare at the photo before him. Instantly the cogs started turning in his brain and he scrutinized it, searching for some pixelation or ragged edge, for any evidence that it might be doctored. He could find none. Overwhelmed, he began, “I…”

            “Yes?” she asked, holding up her hand slightly, as if beckoning to him, ready to sink her claws into his flesh.

            Damian held the photograph of him beside his mother, clearly taken from a distance but apparently authentic. The look on his face in the picture was a look he remembered well: exhaustion, discomfort, and a trace of haughty repugnance. They had no fallbacks and had planned no failsafes for this situation. The trail of questions he had been asked came back to him, how piercingly calculated they had been. He realized that she must know exactly when this was taken; she had asked him specifically, directly, if he had been in Gotham during the times of each of the transfers. It was in February that one of the more recent transfers had been made, and it had been February that he had visited his mother; he had been there for Valentine’s Day and, being the staunch disbeliever in American corporate holidays that she was, Talia had not acknowledged it. Damian had felt, despite himself, slightly homesick. Alfred always decorated the Cave with atrocious pink and red hearts on Valentine’s Day. And Ellen had been – not that she minded terribly, he knew – alone.

            He made a split-second decision. Without glancing to his father, Damian looked up at the woman and answered, “I’m sorry, I was mistaken. This was taken recently.”

            “Really?” asked the woman, her gaze fixed on him, as if fascinated. The whites of her eyes were fully visible, starkly bright against her dark skin. “How recently?”

            He placed the photo down before him. “A year or so.”

            “A year or so,” she repeated vaguely, nodding. She did not ask another question. And then she said, “Thank you, Mister Wayne,” and she took the photo from before him.

            To his surprise and consternation, she moved on.

            “How did you become employed by the Neon Knights Foundation?” she asked, going back to her own desk, placing the photo there, rifling through some other papers.

            “My brother founded the organization.”

            “Your brother, Timothy Wayne, provided you employ in his company?”

            Damian bowed his head cautiously. “Yes.”

            “You’ve recently been promoted, is that right?”

            “Not within the Foundation,” answered Damian curtly. “But I have recently had a change in employer.”

            “Mm-hm. To where?”

            “Wayne Enterprises.”

            “I see,” she said, her voice sharp as obsidian rock, “so you were first employed, hardly yet out of college, at a high-level job in your brother’s company, and then, a few years later, to a higher-ranking job at your father’s company. Is this correct?”

            Half of the people watching him could probably detect his grinding jaw, but he forced himself to answer, simply: “Yes.”

            “A little,” she began, that wide smile returning, “nepotistic, don’t you think?”

            He watched her, his vision pulsing slightly black with his visceral hatred for the woman.  “I have proven my merit several times over,” he said, his voice as cruel as he could make it. She could not possibly know in what arenas he had done so or in which contexts he meant this, but – and this came to him with a jolt – he noticed his father shift, almost as if uncomfortable, and Damian felt a completely uncalled for burst of rage.

            She asked questions about his work for a while. His suspicion rose as the questions continued, becoming more and more, it seemed, innocuous. Although his mind was racing far faster than the questions she posed, he could not put together exactly where she was going.

            And then, after a long and tedious bout of questioning which had cooled his fury to a degree, she asked kindly, “Do you work at all with Wayne Pharmaceuticals, Mister Wayne?”

            He eyed her charily. “No,” he said.

            “No?” she repeated. The way her eyes got big reminded him of an owl in the nighttime; the way she cocked her head was as eerie and disconcerting as the bird turning its head all the way around on its neck. “Are you on any prescription medication?”

            He hesitated, considering this. Then, truthfully, he said, “Yes.”

            The slight raise of her eyebrows indicated surprise. He felt an odd, struggling sort of triumph that she did not yet know this. “Really?” she asked. “What exactly is this?”

            He was fairly confident that he did not have to disclose this publicly in court, but he said it anyway, to spite her: “Clomipramine. I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder paired with post-traumatic stress as a teenager.”

            She stared him down. Then, instantly moving on, she flicked her gaze away slightly and said, “I see. Is this medication expensive?”

            “Not for my family, no.”

            “Tell me, Mister Wayne,” she began, pacing slightly, “how much clomipramine could you buy with fifty thousand dollars?”

            He stared at her, eyes hard, lips tight. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never have.”

            She nodded. “Did you recently donate fifty thousand dollars’ worth of prescription medication to a medical institution of some sort?”

            Dread sank into his stomach, teeth clenched. “No,” he said, without protest.

            “All right,” she continued, looking down at a paper in her hands. “Can you tell me, then, what exactly you were purchasing with the fifty thousand dollars you paid in an under-the-table deal to several employees of Wayne Pharmaceuticals?”

            He looked at her. The rage had mostly died down, and was replaced with a sort of weary repulsion. It occurred to him that he had the option to lie; his father had the resources to make this particular incident appear however he wanted it to be. But Ms. Moss, with her shrewd smile and glinting eyes, seemed to know everything already, and he would not play into her game of self-sacrificial evasion.

            Damian answered, “It was a measure for a friend.”

            She seemed to perk up with that, although whether in interest or at the smell of blood, he could not tell. “‘A measure for a friend?'” she quoted, enunciating clearly. “Will you clarify what that means?”

            “I have a friend,” he said, saying it slowly, hoping she could catch the contempt in his voice, “who needed to be part of a drug trial.”

            “A drug trial.”

            “Yes.”

            “So you were, technically, buying prescription drugs.”

            “Objection!” called Damian’s lawyer again, but the judge merely replied impatiently, “Overruled.”

            Damian’s gaze never flickered from the woman. “I was not,” he said. “I was making certain a friend in need would receive adequate health care.”

            “You’re talking about experimental drug trial SG12, correct?” she asked, glancing around the room as she said this.

            “Yes.”

            “You realize volunteers were chosen for the trial using statistically random selection, in order to maintain the scientific integrity of the experiment?”

            As soon as she finished her question, she smiled again.

            “Yes,” he said, his voice smooth, but hard.

            “So,” she continued, across the room from him, but still pressing against him, eyes wide and accusatory, watching him with that expression on her face that said she had determined the outcome of this case a long time ago; amused, she continued, “you do understand that payment was not necessary, if your friend was selected?”

            He stared at her. “My friend was not selected for the first round of trials,” he said stonily.

            “No?” she asked, sounding legitimately surprised. “You paid fifty thousand dollars to get your friend into an experimental drug trial of which he had no legal basis to be a part?”

            “He needed-”

            “Mister Wayne,” she said, almost apologetically, “that sounds like a bribe to me.”

            He fell silent, burning.

            Knowing full well the fury she caused, Ms. Moss continued. Kindly, she asked, “What is your friend’s name?”

            “Colin Wilkes.” It was no secret that Damian Wayne and Colin Wilkes were good friends. He had been, after all, the one who introduced Damian to Ellen.

            “Has he consented to testify in your favor?”

            Damian began to speak, then stopped himself. Her smile widened. He realized that she knew exactly the answer to this question, and he suddenly realized the mistake he had made.

            “No,” he said, brusquely.

            Blinking, she asked, “Why not?”

            There was a short silence.

            She repeated, “Mister Wayne? Why has your friend not consented to testify before the court?”

            “He can’t,” Damian replied abruptly. “He’s been missing for a week now.”

            “Yes,” she said, just before he had finished his sentence. “That’s right. And when did the trial begin, Mister Wayne?”

            It felt like the breath was being slowly pushed out of Damian’s lungs, something invisible constricting his insides. Darkly, he answered, “This week.”

            She nodded, watching him carefully. Again, she said, “That’s right.”

            A small sound. Few people noticed it, and Damian likely would not have either, if it hadn’t been for Ellen, glancing around slightly, her eyes finding Bruce. He moved. Touched something at his belt. The solemnity in his face did not waver.

            “You spend,” began Ms. Moss, apparently not noticing the fact that Damian had glanced briefly away from her, “fifty thousand dollars to get your friend into a highly exclusive experimental drug trial…and then this friend disappears before he can participate at all?”

            The wide smile on her face seemed, for the first time, completely out of place, almost unnerving to spectators. Damian was not focused on the woman at all. He tried not to look behind her, to draw attention to it, but it seemed like a great cacophonous roaring rang deafeningly loud in his head as, as if in slow motion, Bruce Wayne, sitting in the first row of seats, got to his feet and headed out of the courtroom. There was a dead silence as the door slipped shut behind him. Damian could not quite tear his eyes away; his gaze flickered beside the door, and he saw Lian sitting there, arms folded across her chest, her expression unreadable.

            Like an owl twisting its neck, Ms. Moss cocked her head again. “Mister Wayne,” she said, and he hated the way she said his name, he hated every piece of this woman and this room and there was nothing he could do but sit there like the king of spades precariously perched on the top of a crumbling house of cards, “forgive me,” the woman continued, “if I cannot accept this as mere coincidence.”

            It was not long after that that Damian was finally released from the witness stand, but the last few minutes were agonizing. The shock and disbelief at his father’s conspicuous exit had transmuted into shame and rage, and it was all he could do to keep from lunging violently towards the woman, ending this stupid struggle, and chasing after his father, to tear him apart.

            After him, Tam Fox was called to the stand; as Executive Director of Neon Knights affairs in Gotham, she was Damian’s direct supervisor, and spoke confidently and defiantly in his favor. It was good to hear her speak about him, but Damian couldn't focus on her words. Her testimony did not take long, and it was evident that the show was over, today.

            Court was adjourned. The media instantly attempted to throng towards Damian, but they were blocked, forced to recede. Ellen and Tim joined him; glancing around, he did not see a woman with bright pink hair, and he was glad for this. It was better that she wasn’t there.

            They said very little, as several bodyguards accompanied them out of the courthouse, towards the car waiting at the curb. Ellen held his hand, and Tim kept a hand firmly placed on Damian’s arm, regardless of whether Damian wanted it there, and Tim knew that he did not.

            It was a screaming, shouting mess outside. Accusations completely unheard of, not even suggested in court or by fact were hurled Damian’s way. It was, at the end of the day, Tim who faced down the crowds, after slamming the door of the car closed behind Damian, swinging around to face the cameras, livid.

            “This is a complete farce,” said Tim simply but aggressively. “Whoever genuinely believes that my brother is capable of any of this is seriously deluding themselves. The proceedings today were nothing more than a formalized mockery of our system of justice. All you media vultures need to go home. There’s nothing for you here.”

            With that, he slipped into the car as well, and it drove off into the fading light.

            After a moment, Damian said lowly, “I hope those remarks don’t get you into trouble.”

            “No more than we’re already in,” said Tim fairly.

            “You’re generally far more careful with the media.”

            “Let them know what I think,” replied Tim, shrugging. “I don’t care about the kinds of people who are going to judge either you or me based on this.”

            There was a silence. Ellen was no longer holding Damian’s hand. Leaning in towards the driver, Damian asked, “Alfred, did you see my father?”

            “Briefly, yes,” replied Alfred, expertly navigating the Gotham City streets. “He said something about the League before he left.”

            “Left?” echoed Damian hollowly, as if he couldn’t believe the words.

            “I knew it had to be an emergency,” said Tim. “There’s no way he would’ve left for anything less.”

            Damian said nothing. He was still attempting to disguise the stunned look on his face. Ellen said, “That’s cold.”

            Tim began to protest, but then fell silent. Damian had not replied to Ellen’s words. Tim had not seen him look so lost in a long time.

            By the time they arrived at the Manor, the expression on Damian’s face had hardened, and the second they arrived at the house, without going to change his clothes or anything at all, he headed down into the Cave. Ellen did not immediately follow him; an alert sounded on her communicator, to which she had to respond. Tim, on the other hand, glanced at Alfred anxiously, and then followed his brother down into the darkness.

            Damian was before the computer, angrily punching buttons. There was silence, a crackling white noise, and then an obnoxious beeping. He swore and tried again. Nothing. Switching gears, he keyed something else in; a woman appeared on the screen, glasses perched on her nose, hair a faded orange. “You need something, birdboy?” asked Oracle.

            “Yes,” he said tersely. “Connect me with my father.”

            She took a sip of coffee from the mug in one hand. “Can’t,” she answered. “He’s busy.”

            “With _what?_ ”

            “League business,” she said. “How’d your court date go?” He swore again, and she asked, “That bad?” and he hung up on her.

            He tried calling Batman’s line directly again. Tim saw him input a keycode for the emergency line, for which they had severe restrictions. Still nothing. This surprised Tim. He had never known Bruce not to reply in the case that one of his boys might be in trouble, although it was true that Bruce was probably fully aware that Damian was physically fine.

            Damian let out a loud, animalistic shout of frustration, pounding his fists on the control panel before him. Then, after a moment’s pause, he stepped away, digging into his pocket, pulling out a small personal phone. He dialed a number, then pressed the phone to his ear impatiently. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he massaged the bridge of his nose, then his eyes flicked open again as someone picked up on the other line. A bewildered male voice asked, “Damian?”

            “Chris,” he said, with something like relief. “I need you to call your father.”

            “I – what?”

            “Superman,” said Damian determinedly. “I need you to contact Superman.”

            “Why? Are you in trouble?”

            “No, I need to get a message to my father.”

            “Why can’t you call him?”

            “Chris,” breathed Damian, “just do it.”

            There was a pause on the other line, and then Chris asked reluctantly, “What’s the message?”

            “Tell him,” said Damian, “to call me.”

            This time, the pause was less friendly. “You haven’t spoken a word to me in two years,” said Chris, his words slow, “and now you’re calling to get me to call my father to tell _your_ father – both busy with something that could have to do with the fate of the world – to call you?”

            “Essentially, yes,” answered Damian petulantly. “If I had time for explanations at the moment, I would give one to you that was both appropriate for the circumstances and duly emotionally satisfying. But I don’t have the time, and I would like to speak to my father. Do you understand me?”

            Although Chris’s voice was still uncertain, the hostility had slipped away. “I… OK. But you’re going to have to explain what’s going on.”

            “Just do as I ask.”

            There was a _click_ as Chris hung up. Damian pocketed the phone again, then stood before the computer expectantly. Uneasily, Tim moved forward. “Look, Damian,” he began, “I know you’re mad at him, but you can’t really expect a trick like that to work-”

            At that exact moment, an urgent bleeping filled the Cave, and Damian punched a key, staring rigidly up at the screen.

            Tim had seen Bruce angry under the cowl before, but this was far more than that; he bared his teeth, exposed skin flushed an odd, fuming purple, every movement filled with utter rage.

            “Robin,” he hissed through his teeth, “what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

            “Getting your attention,” answered Damian loudly. “For once in my life.”

            “My attention?” replied Bruce, and it was unnerving to hear him use his regular voice while wearing the cowl, even if it seethed with fury. “You’re really going to claim neglect after the humiliation I endured with you today?”

            “You didn’t _endure_ it with me,” sneered Damian. “I didn’t see you up on that stand defending me. You ran as soon as you got the chance.”

             “Do you think I _wanted_ to leave you there?”

            “ _Yes_ ,” answered Damian, slamming his fists down on the control panel. “Yes, I do! I think you’re under the wholly mistaken impression that it was only a humiliation for you, when I am the one being tricked into committing _perjury_ -”

            “This is not,” said Bruce fiercely, “the appropriate time for this discussion.”

            “Yes!” cried Damian, the shriek in his voice highly unsettling to Tim. “It is! It is the _only_ appropriate time for this discussion, because this is the _only time_ you ever allow me!”

            “Robin-”

            “Don’t _call me that!_ ”

            With this, in a shuddering expression of his rage, the heel of Damian’s foot collided with the arm of the seat before the computers; the seat itself broke, and was thrown across the floor of the Cave. Neither of them said anything.

            And then Bruce said, his voice low and terrifying, “You, out of _all of us_ , should understand that there are more important things, Damian.”

            Damian closed his eyes tightly, then opened them and looked at the screen. “No,” he said bluntly. “You would do well to take a lesson from Superman, Father. At least he understands that there is _nothing_ more important than his children.”

            Bruce stared at his son for a moment, eyes not quite visible through the cowl lenses. And then the screen turned black as he terminated the connection.

            Damian leaned against the control panel for support. The adrenaline was still pumping through him, but seemed to be fading fast, and Tim could tell that his legs were shaking slightly, weak from his body’s visceral reaction to his anger.

            As Tim began to move forward, although for what purpose exactly he could not quite decide, Ellen came down the last of the steps.

            “Damian,” she said, striding towards him, interrupting Tim’s path. “Niloufar’s got something.”

            For a moment, Damian could not respond. And then, slowly, he glanced up at her. “On Colin?” he asked, but his face betrayed his misery.

            “No,” she replied, taking his place at the controls, typing something in. “But considering how Batman is otherwise engaged, I guess we’re responsible for Gotham at the moment.”

            Tiredly, Damian looked up at the screen expectantly. “What is it?”

            A picture appeared. It looked like a police photograph, and was dated about an hour ago. It was – or had been, at some point previously – a body. That was the only thing Damian could tell.

            Standing behind them, after a moment, Tim had to glance away from the image, feeling vaguely sick. It was a mess of blood and jutting bone and internal organs strewn about. The once-a-body had been thoroughly destroyed.

            Damian’s face was unnaturally hard. He observed the thing dispassionately. Without looking away, he began to ask, “That’s not-?”

            “No,” she answered, gently. “It’s not Colin.”

            He nodded, and he did not stop nodding. “Yes,” he said. “All right. Niloufar’s already looking into it?”

            “Yes.”

            “I want Jordan and Lucas on patrol tonight.” As an afterthought, he added, “Will Lucas be up to it?”

            “He’s been focusing on finding Colin for the past few nights,” she replied. “I think the relief would do him good.”

            “Fine. I’ll accompany Nell. We’ll continue the hunt for Colin. You join the others, keep them on their patrol routes, but if you get any leads on this thing, follow them.”

            “That’s what I already told Niloufar.”

            There was a silence. It was as if Damian let out some kind of sigh of relief. “Good,” he said, sounding utterly drained, and Tim couldn’t tell if he really meant it.

            Damian ran a hand through his hair, and then swept away from the machine, returning to the stairs.

            “I suppose,” he called behind him blearily, as he began his slow, methodical ascent, “the only thing we can do now,” Tim glanced at Ellen, but Ellen did not return the gaze, and Damian said dully, his voice fading as he climbed the stairs: “…is wait for the dark.”


	9. Fool's Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fool's mate
> 
> The shortest possible chess game ending in mate: 1.f3 e5 2.g4 Qh4# (or minor variations on this).

            Tim stared at the records before him.

            “No,” he said. “That’s impossible.”

            “I had our people trace it as best they could,” replied Tam, something gentle in her voice, as if she knew the devastation of this blow. “That’s why it took so long to confirm. But there you go. All that money, gone.”

            Clutching onto the paper so tightly his knuckles went white, he glanced up at the woman. “Tam,” he said; he was sitting at his desk, Tam standing before him sympathetically. “This is way beyond a few thousand dollars.”

            “I know,” she said, “I couldn’t believe it at first, either. But – it’s just gone. Disappeared. We can’t trace it anywhere.”

            Tim leaned back in his seat, his back rounded, body concave, as if he were about to collapse in on himself. “One point five million dollars,” he said hazily. “Oh my God. How does this _happen_.”

            “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I can’t get a straight answer from our financial team, nobody knows what happened. It’s a total disaster.” She paused. Tim said nothing, his fist at his mouth, still staring at the papers in his hands. “Tim,” she continued, “we can’t postpone this any longer. What with the scrutiny we’re already under, we have to make the budget public. We’ve waited too long already.”

            “But…” began Tim, but he could not think of any objection. Instead of a protest, he asked weakly, “What happened?”

            She hesitated, then flopped down in the seat before his desk with a hopeless little sigh. “If you ask me,” she said, “whoever’s been taking the money all along realized somebody was finally noticing, and they were about to get caught. So they decided on one last hit before they went.”

            Finally, Tim glanced up at her, then placed the papers on his desk. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “This transfer was before the news broke. It couldn’t have been-” he glanced at the date again, “-this was, what, a week before Moss showed up?”

            “Right,” answered Tam. “Which is a clue, probably.”

            He looked at the paper distractedly, then up at her, a look of slightly amused surprise on his face. Doubtfully, he repeated, “A clue?”

            “Hey,” she replied pointedly, “ _you’re_ supposed to be the detective here.”

            He watched her thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

            “I think I’m right,” she began, “and that whoever it was found out that we were starting to look into it, and bailed.” Pausing for, Tim presumed, emphasis, she continued, “That means it could only have been someone who knew what was going on. So that narrows it down to – a few select members of our financial team? You and me? We kept it pretty tight. Unless you told anyone, our list of potential suspects is pretty short.”

            “You’re right,” he said, nodding, lost in contemplation. “And I didn’t tell anyone outside of-”

            He broke off suddenly, as if realizing something. Then, slowly, he lowered his head, putting his hand to his forehead, and let out an almost inaudible groan.

            “What?” asked Tam, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

            Letting out a long breath through his nose, Tim didn’t look at her and said: “I told Damian. Him and Bruce. Before anybody else.”

            Tam watched him, looking harassed. “So,” she said, “this literally doesn’t help us at all.”

            “No,” he agreed. “Doesn’t look like it.”

            “At least we don’t have to make _that_ fact public. Not yet, anyway.”

             They sat there together in resignation, humbled by their continuing misfortune. “We will eventually,” muttered Tim. “Keep looking into it. I’ll put my people on it as well.” Tam nodded and stood up, collecting the papers. Incredulously, Tim shook his head. “One-point-five million dollars,” he said dully. “Tam. What _happened_.”

            Getting to work was a challenge for Damian; he usually drove himself, but what with the wave of media attention he now received, it was practically impossible for him to drive down the streets of Gotham unaccompanied. Mostly Alfred drove him, and Damian said very little in the car, except for the occasional damnation of a particularly determined reporter, the ones who would throw themselves against the windows of the car, or dive into the street.

            The discordant, oddly melodious sounds of the media silenced as he entered his building, even more so when he boarded the elevator, swiping his card and keying in a code which would take him straight to his office at the topmost floor of Wayne Tower, just beneath the penthouse. He passed his secretary, a young woman paying her way through law school with the job and the help of a Wayne Enterprises grant, and when he greeted her shortly, she said, “Good morning Mister Wayne, your nine AM is waiting in your office.”

            He paused, looking at her, a ceramic coffee cup in his hand. “Nine AM,” he said, as if he had misheard her.

            She looked up at him with sure, helpful eyes. “Yes,” she answered. “A Miss Etai Yazi. Kind of an odd name, huh?” At his blank look, she said, almost a reprimand, “Mister Wayne, you know your schedule isn’t of any use unless you actually _look_ at it-” but he had already moved on, heading into his office, peering through the frosted glass.

            As he opened the door, a woman sitting behind in his seat looked up, her feet resting on the desk. “Oh, look who it is,” she said, with a syrupy sweet smile, her bright hair shining with the light coming in from the window behind her. “You kept me waiting, Mister Wayne.”

            “Lian,” he said, his voice hard, placing his briefcase on the desk. “What are you doing here?”

            “I wanted to talk to you.”

            “How did you even get in?”

            Peeved, she replied, “The same way anybody else in their right mind does. I made an appointment with your secretary.”

            He gaped at her.

            “Lian,” he began, very slowly and clearly, as if she did not understand, “both of us are under serious investigation. You can’t just walk in here. I can’t be seen with you.”

            “Don’t be so dramatic,” she sniffed. “They’re after you, not me.” She paused, then continued, “Besides, everybody knows I’m not a terrorist. I mean, Christ, look at me. I have _pink hair_.”

            After watching her for another moment, Damian murmured, “Get out of my seat,” and she put her feet on the floor and got up. They exchanged places, and she sat on the edge of the desk, her body twisted to face him. “What you look like doesn’t matter,” he answered. “Pretty, petite women have a history of defying stereotypes, in your family.” He paused, then added, “Mine as well, I suppose.”

            There was a silence between them. She stared at him with dark, unmoving eyes.

            Damian asked, “Have you spoken to your father about this?”

            “No,” she replied. “I’m not the one on trial, Damian.”

            “Why are you still here?”

            “Because I have no leads,” she said simply. “And my funding’s all dried up, I’ll add.” He did not reply to this. “I figure the best plan is to get me and you in the same place. So whichever way she falls, we’ll both be here.”

            Damian was shaking his head before Lian even finished her sentence. It seemed as if he was holding himself back for a moment, lips pressed tightly together, as if unwilling to say it. And then, lowly, fiercely, he began in nothing more than a whisper, “This was always the worst thing about you and Iris, you are so God-damn _insecure_ about-”

            “That’s cute,” she said, her eyes rolling theatrically, “coming from _you_.”

            “You think she would come back for me?” he asked, and it was more of a demand. “Do you really believe that?”

            “No,” she said, too loud, “I don’t. But outside of her family, there’s no one else she loves as much as you or me, and I used to get along with you OK, so I thought why _not_ stay here, make sure you get out of this mess intact.” She watched him with flickering eyes, mouth closed, nostrils flaring. “I apologize for caring about you, Damian. I forgot, that’s what you make people do. Make them feel _bad_ about giving a damn.”

            He glared at her, but she did not look away. Then, laboriously, he moved on. “You should consider yourself lucky they haven’t brought her into this.”

            “That can’t happen,” said Lian, but the venom in her voice gone. “It’d put her family at risk.”

            “I know,” replied Damian coolly. “We’re already putting measures into place to protect her identity. The easiest way they could involve her is if they connected her to you.”

            She met his gaze. “That won’t happen,” she said gently.

            A deep, heavy moment between them. “Are you sure of that?” he asked.

            There was a loud, obtrusive ringing from the telephone on his desk. For a moment he didn’t move, eyes still boring into Lian’s, and then he relented, his jaw clenching, and he jabbed a finger onto a button. “Yes?” he asked, his voice cold steel.

            “Mister Wayne,” said his secretary, “your fiancée is here.”

            He didn’t glance up at Lian, but the iciness in his voice melted slightly. “Thank you. Tell her she can come in.”

            “We’re not finished yet,” said Lian, as he lifted his finger off the button.

            “We should be,” replied Damian. “I don’t want you getting into any more trouble because of me.”

            “Very noble,” she muttered derisively, rolling her eyes.

            At that moment, there was a respectful knock on the glass door, and then it opened. Hair pulled back into a long braid trailing down her back, Ellen looked at them warily and said, “Hello.”

            “Ellen,” he said, standing up; he went to her and greeted her with a touch of their lips. Lian watched distastefully.

            “Hopefully I’m not interrupting anything important,” she remarked, as Damian gestured for her to take a seat, and returned to behind his desk.

            “Nope,” answered Lian, looking back at Damian. “Just sharing some fond memories with your groom-to-be.”

            “Ellen,” said Damian tiredly, “this is Lian Harper.”

            Lian held out her hand. Ellen took it cautiously, and both she and Damian saw Lian’s eyes refocus on Ellen’s face for a moment, tracing the long, puckered scar there. There was a pause, and then Lian said softly, “I think we’ve met.”

            Ellen raised an eyebrow questioningly.

            “I used to work out of Star City,” Lian explained. “I’m…” she trailed off, then restarted. “I know the guy who taught you, there.”

            Suddenly, Ellen’s eyes lit up, although in surprise or pleasure, Damian could not quite tell. “Damian,” she said, glancing at her fiancé. “You never told me you had friends in Star City.”

            “I don’t,” replied Damian simply. “Lian left years ago.” After a moment’s consideration, he added, “And she’s not my friend.”

            “How’s he doing?” asked Ellen. “I haven’t been back there in a while, either.”

            “He’s great,” answered Lian, returning her smile. “By the way – I don’t know if you already knew this – his name’s Connor. He’s kind of like my uncle, or something.”

            This settled over Ellen, and she realized she had not known his name. “Thank you,” she said; remembering her training, a rush of vitalizing memories washed over her, and she felt vaguely, pleasantly, nostalgic. Coming back to the present, she asked, “So why are you still sticking around, Lian? You haven’t been called as a witness, have you?”

            “Oh, no,” replied Lian, shaking her head. “I’m pretty hard to find, so for as much as they throw around some petty slander about me, I’ll be safely out of harm’s way.”

            “You don’t know that,” growled Damian.

            “I do know that,” she said cheerfully, looking to him. “And you need to stop talking back to me, Damian, unless you’re looking for a repeat of the last time we started fighting.”

            Looking disgusted, Damian began to say her name, a scandalized admonishment, but then Ellen asked, “What happened last time?”

            “I broke his nose,” answered Lian smartly, “shot him in the chest, dislocated his jaw, fractured two ribs and broke three or four more, and cracked his skull.” She narrowed her eyes slightly, tapping her chin in concentration, then added, “And, oh yes. Poisoned him for good measure.”

            Ellen did not glance at Damian, who sank into his seat, bitterly recalling his injuries. A smile danced onto Ellen’s face and she asked, her voice smooth and confident: “Who won?”

            For a second, Damian couldn’t tell if Lian would react with amusement or anger, and then, suddenly, a popping laugh escaped from between her lips. “I like this one,” she said, twisting back to look at Damian. “She’s a keeper.”

            “Assuming I can be kept,” replied Ellen, smiling slyly at Damian.

            He looked between them for a few moments, and then, with a strangled little sigh, he said, “Lian, you should go.”

            The grin did not disappear from her face, although it tightened. “And I thought we were having so much fun.”

            “I don’t mean just _now_ ,” continued Damian. “But you should leave. Get out of Gotham.”

            “We just went over this,” she said patiently. “I’ll be fine.

            “I don’t need to worry about someone else I care about right now.”

            Lian put a hand to her heart, a look of faux-tenderness on her face. “Oh, Mister Wayne,” she said. “I’m touched.”

            “Well, you certainly _wish_ , don’t you-”

            “I’m sticking around,” said Lian, sliding off the desk. “You couldn’t get rid of me even if you really wanted to, which I know you don’t.” To Ellen, she said, “It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m sorry, before I go – could I possibly see your ring?”

            A little taken aback, Ellen nevertheless said, “Sure,” and lifted the chain on her neck, holding it out to Lian. The other woman took it gingerly, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger admiringly.

            “Boy’s got good taste, at least,” said Lian approvingly. “Big and shiny. Exactly as it should be.” She gave the ring back to Ellen and looked in between them. “I’m happy for you two,” she said, and Ellen heard the stark honesty in her voice, and thought it was for Damian’s sake. “Let me know when the wedding is, so I can crash it and ruin everything.” She turned and swept away to the door; before she left, however, she paused and turned back. “Oh, and,” she said, the familiar spite returning to her voice, “we should definitely double date sometime.”

            And then she was gone. Both Ellen and Damian watched the door for a moment, and then Ellen looked back at him, questions written all over her face.

            “Before you ask,” began Damian carefully, “my relationship with her is not at all what you think.”

            “Really,” said Ellen, sounding charmed.

            “We were never – I mean, _really_ , she doesn’t even like-”

            “I didn’t think so, Damian,” said Ellen gently, almost shaking her head at him. “You two talk like old friends.”

            “ _Friends_ would be a little too forgiving, I think,” said Damian, but she cut him off.

            “It’s sweet to hear you caring for someone like that,” she continued, glancing back at the glass walls. “But you should be careful. Sometimes you get overly concerned with keeping everybody safe, and you start sounding like your father.”

            Damian leaned an elbow on his desk, pressing fingers to his lips. When she said this, he leaned back in his seat. “Don’t compare me to him,” he said, annoyed. “Not now.”

            There was a silence. Damian drummed his fingers on the desk before him. Watching him with patient, affectionate eyes, she asked: “You haven’t heard from him?”

            “No,” muttered Damian, his voice an angry hum. “I think Dick’s talked to him, but he won’t tell me. He doesn’t like getting in between my father and me.”

            He sat there, stewing in his disappointment and misery, and Ellen could not bring herself to be unkind when him when he looked so pathetic. “When you think he’ll come back?”  
            “I don’t know,” he snapped immediately, as if he’d been waiting for the question. “However long his mission may take, I think he will deliberately postpone his return for a few days. Out of pure spite.”

            “Right. You must get your pettiness from his side of the family.”

            “You say that,” he countered, glancing up at her, “only because you’ve never met my mother.”

            As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he seemed even glummer. She did not look away from him. “Does she know you’re public about her now?”

            “She hasn’t contacted me within the last seventy-two hours, if that’s what you mean,” replied Damian. “But it’s a media circus. If she doesn’t know, she will soon.”

            “Are you OK with that?”  
            He opened his mouth as if to reply right away, and then stopped himself, considering this. Slowly, he began, “I knew it would happen sometime. Too many people already knew.” He said nothing. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s for the best.”

            “Do you really believe that?”  
            “If it will get my parents to speak to one another again? I wouldn’t mind that.”

            There was a long silence. Ellen no longer looked at him. He rifled through some papers on his desk, and neither of them said anything.

            “You never had to forgive her,” Ellen said, quietly, “for what she did to you.”

            Damian stopped moving, looking up to catch Ellen’s gaze, lower and darker and far more self-conscious than he was ever used to. For a moment, he felt a surge of awkward confusion, and then he saw her face again and the long scar, from her right eyebrow diagonally slashed across her face to her chin. He placed the papers down on the desk and lowly, he said, “I don’t mean to invalidate-”

            “You didn’t,” she said, before he could finish. “I know it’s not comparable.” She watched him intensely, then glanced away. “But at least my mother didn’t know what she was doing.”

            They were both unaccustomed to the unspoken tension between them; for as much as Damian would exaggerate a complaint now and then, neither of them liked to dwell on the topic of their mothers, and they were unused to being with each other in so much discomfort.

            “Anyway,” she said, picking up her large purse, “I actually brought something for you.”

             “Oh, joy,” murmured Damian, as she took papers out of a large manila folder and laid them on his desk. “Police reports.”

            “Bodies,” she said grimly, splaying out the photos. “Your favorite thing.”

            They both looked at the pictures for a moment, then Damian murmured, “Hardly a body anymore at all.” He took one of the photos, inspecting it thoughtfully. “Croc?” he asked.

            “Still in Arkham,” answered Ellen. “Most of the costumed criminals are. You’ve noticed, right? That the streets have been uncommonly clean as of late?”

            “ _Clean_ is relative,” said Damian absently, frowning at the photos. “Personally I’d prefer the gimmicks to regular citizens. It makes it easier to believe in the common man.”

            “I don’t think this is a ‘regular citizen,’ though. It seems…”

            She hesitated. Damian finished her thought: “Like a monster.”

            “Yes. Like something bigger.”

            “Do we have any clue what it could be?”

            She shook her head. “No evidence whatsoever. Except for the victims.”

            Damian put the photos down, never taking his eyes off the blood and guts and grime. “Grisly,” he said.

            “Yes,” she agreed. “That’s two victims in less than a week. We don’t have any more time for messing around. You need to be out there tonight.”

            “I will be.”

            “Everyone does.”

            “Tell that to your team.”

            “I don’t have to,” she said pointedly. “What with Colin being missing, and now – this. They’re not sleeping. They don’t get home until after dawn. We’re on top of this, Damian.” She glanced up at his eyes. “Tell it to _your_ team.”

            He looked at the photos, then his eyes flickered up to meet hers, and he saw the purpose there.

            It was late that night that the call went out; it came from Niloufar, although, as always, she was working from their base. Damian was the closest and the first to respond. He appeared in the dark, awful alleyway, a stinking miasma of the sickly sweet scent of blood filling his nostrils. He glanced around, knowing that it was another member of the team who’d made the call in the first place. After a moment of searching, someone appeared above him, gray eyes looking down on him.

            Jordan hovered several feet above the body. Damian greeted her cheerlessly. “Jabberwock.”

            She nodded. “Robin.”

            Glancing down at the body, he asked, “Have you alerted the police yet?”  
            “No. Seraph told me to wait for you.”

            “Good. You haven’t touched anything?”

            “I’m not stupid.”

            Damian had a reply to that, but he held his tongue, kneeling by the gross mess. “Can you see anything unusual?” he asked Jordan.

            She glanced down at the body, her eyes focusing, using her augmented senses to check for any evidence. “Nothing much useful,” she replied. “No teeth or claw marks, just like the other bodies.”

            “Any indication of weapons that might have been used?”

            “No,” replied Jordan, and then she paused, and lowered herself down towards the body even more, alighting on the ground just beside the thing. “No jagged edges or anything. It’s almost like…” she hesitated, then said, “It’s like something tore them apart. Crushed them physically, with their bare hands.”

            Damian’s eyes flickered up to her. “Who would have the strength to do that?”

            After a moment, Jordan noticed his gaze, and she lifted off into the air again. “I’m not the only one with powers in this city,” she sniffed. “My bet’s on a meta. Someone real big.”

            “Big,” repeated Damian. “All right. Easier to spot, one would hope.”

            “Yeah.”

            Damian removed something from his belt, used a tiny camera to take pictures of the body, the alleyway. “Keep an eye out, Jabberwock,” he said. “But you’re done here.”

            She nodded, and began to head upwards into the inky black sky again.

            After another moment, as Damian began to reach to his communicator to contact the police, the commlink burst to life out of its own accord. A woman’s voice: “Robin.”

            He took pause at this. “Oracle. Do you need something?”

            “Come see me.”

            “Now?”

            “You and RR.”

            Glancing around the alleyway, he replied lowly, “I don’t think he’s out. He has…domestic work.”

            “I’ll get him. Just come see me.”

            Reluctantly, Damian said, “Understood. Give me five minutes.” He terminated the connection and for a moment, did not move. Then, very simply, and just as quietly, he merely said aloud: “Jabberwock.”

            After a few seconds, Jordan appeared, lowering herself down through the air into the alley. She smirked at him. “You call?”

            “Alert the police,” said Damian. “Keep watch until they arrive. I have to go.”

            “Sure thing, Big Guy.”

            “Be responsible.”

            Jordan grinned and turned herself upside down, her long hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, hanging down. “When am I not?” she asked teasingly.

            When Robin arrived at Oracle’s den, Tim was already there. He was not in uniform, although he had presumably taken the bike, considering the motorcycle helmet on the table beside him. “What took you so long?” he asked, as Damian entered.

            Damian had no desire to match wits with Tim, and instead strode up to beside where Barbara sat. “You said you had something for us?”

            “Yes,” she answered. “You’re not going to like it.”

            “We never do,” said Tim, with a sigh full of faux-remorse.

            “What is it?” asked Damian, annoyed and impatient.

            “Well,” began Babs, “first of all – the records for last month were finally completely processed. Right, Tim?”

            Tim nodded. “There was another…inconsistency.”

            “Of what kind?” asked Damian.

            “The question should be,” said Babs wisely, “how _much_.”

            Damian looked to Tim expectantly. Something like shame blossomed across his face and, without meeting Damian’s gaze, he muttered something lowly.

            The man in uniform blinked. “ _How_ much?” he asked distrustfully.

            “One million,” repeated Tim gloomily, but clearly. “Gone just as quickly as all the other transfers.”

            It seemed, for a second, like Damian was going to reply to this, probably derisively. He did not. Instead he just glanced back at the screens Barbara was managing and asked, “And?”

            “ _And_ ,” said Barbara emphatically, “that much money is not easily covered up.”

            “How do you mean?” asked Damian.

            “A Wayne passcode was used again,” said Babs patiently, bringing up information on her screen. “Except this time, it wasn’t something covert. There’s no way you can pretend you’re spending that much money on first aid and sporting goods, so it seems like whoever did this, this time, they weren’t really trying to hide it.”

            “Why?” asked Damian, and the question surprised both Babs and Tim.

            “What do you mean _why_?” asked Tim, irritated. “Babs, if you know who did it, just tell us-”

            “ _Why_ would they stop trying to hide it?” said Damian. “When was this transfer made? Before or after the case was made against me?”  
            “Before,” answered Tim quickly. “But not very long. Someone could have known we were looking into the financial inconsistencies. Now if you’d shut up for like two minutes so we could finally get to the bottom of this-”

            “I just think that’s odd,” said Damian begrudgingly. “And worth questioning.”

            “It is odd,” agreed Babs. “And so is this.”

            She typed something onto her screen and, slowly, a network of lines appeared, seemingly mapping something out.

            “It’s much easier to transfer this kind of money by using some kind of standard identification procedure outside of the kind you guys use for your caped business.”

            “What kinds of identification procedures?”  
            “Advanced fingerprinting,” said Babs. “Retina scan.” She paused, waiting for the image on the screen to begin to put itself together. “And facial recognition.”

            The face on the screen shifted and molted slightly, growing and defining as the picture came together. Tim’s jaw literally dropped, and Damian felt suddenly, inescapably, cold.

            “Gentlemen,” said Barbara quietly, glancing at the both of them. “You’re looking at our culprit. That man who’s been embezzling funds from the Foundation for over a year now.”

            She glanced at Damian, saw the rigid, unreadable look on her face. And then she looked back at the face on the screen, now completely recognizable, and she spoke his name.

            She said, “Bruce Wayne.”


	10. Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crush
> 
> Slang for a quick win, especially an overwhelming attack versus poor defensive play. A crushing move is a decisive one.

            “But this has got to be a mistake,” insisted Tim, under his breath. They were sitting in at the long dining table in the Manor, three separate computers open in front of them, papers covering the finished wood before them. “Maybe – I don’t know – someone fooled the scanners.”

            “My father _designed_ those scanners,” said Damian doubtfully, leaning back in his chair. “You can’t get around them.”

            Tim watched Damian for a moment, then tore away, looking back to a computer screen. Bruce’s reconstructed face was there; Tim was running an analysis, his fourth consecutive test in the past few hours. Facial recognition was based on just a few points of reference, and so the rest of the face was not as clearly imprinted, but the analyses kept coming back positive.

            “That doesn’t make sense,” replied Tim, sounding distressed. “You’re right, he knows everything about them. Which means he would know that we know he authorized the transfer.”

             “I don’t think that’s entirely out of the question,” said Damian bitterly. “After all, he _is_ conveniently absent, isn’t he?”

            Shooting a dark look Damian’s way, Tim responded, “Dick says he’s off-planet. A League thing.” He hesitated. At Damian’s unwavering look of something bordering on apathy, he continued, “That means even if this is, somehow, actually him – which I’m still not convinced it is – then he couldn’t have planned to be gone right now, when we found out.” Tim considered this for another moment, and something occurred to him. A tentative hope sneaking into his voice, he began, “Maybe he actually expected to be here? To explain this?”

            “You think,” said Damian dryly, “that he can explain why he lifted three million dollars out from the budget of a _charity_?”

            Tim didn’t reply to this.

            Finally, Damian leaned forward, engaging in Tim’s desperate search for reason. Lowering his voice slightly, he said, “He’s been so focused on putting _us_ into the spotlight. Making sure I was prepared.” He paused, then said, “Maybe he expects the media’s attention on me to keep him safe.” He watched Tim struggling with the idea of Bruce’s guilt. “Maybe he expects me to be his alibi.”

            “ _No_ ,” said Tim, visibly upset now. “Look, Damian, just because you’re mad at him doesn’t mean he’s trying to _frame_ you. He’s your _dad_ -”

            He broke off suddenly, reaching out and lowering the laptop before him, the expression instantly wiping off his face. Damian glanced up and around, to where Alfred had entered the room, carrying plates full of food. “Dinner,” he announced, laying the food before them. “I shall take advantage of your father’s absence to feed you all at regular dining hours. You know how he so hates that.”

            “Thank you, Alfred,” said Damian curtly. Tim echoed his thanks. Straightening up, Alfred looked between the two of them, hands clasped behind his back.

            “I don’t suppose there’s something an old man can help our two young heroes with?”

            “No,” said Tim. “We’re OK. Thanks.”

            For another moment, Alfred did not move, and then he relented, headed out of the room. “Of course,” he murmured. “The Wayne boys have always been good at keeping their secrets.”

            As soon as the door to the kitchen swung shut behind him, Tim opened the laptop again, glancing at the numbers there. A dismal, unhappy look in his eye, Damian rubbed the corner of one of the papers between his thumb and forefinger. Turning his head towards Damian, his gaze lingering still on the computer screen, Tim said, “I’m glad we agree on that much.”

            “On what?”

            Tim took his eyes away from the screen, looking to his brother’s face. “Keep this contained,” he said. “Between you, me, and Babs. Nobody else. Not Alfred, not Dick, not your girlfriend or her team,” he paused, “and especially not Bruce.”

            Damian only watched him tiredly for a moment. And then he corrected: “My fiancée. Not my girlfriend.”

            Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Tim replied, “The point still stands. Let’s just keep this quiet until he gets back.”

            “That’s fine with me. It’s not like he and I are entirely eager to be speaking to one another again at all, at this point.”

            “When he eventually calls for reconciliation,” said Tim pointedly, “don’t say anything.”

            “He won’t,” said Damian simply, looking down at the papers before him. “He knows I dislike apologies.”

            It was as if Tim hadn’t heard this. His eyes were once again transfixed on the screen. The analysis was winding down. “Sixty-eight percent match,” he murmured, a crease in his brow, reading the statistic on the screen. “That’s not perfect.”

            Glancing up, Damian added, “The quality of the image is such that you couldn’t expect anything over seventy-five, no matter what.”

            “Yeah, but,” began Tim, “I still can’t accept this. Maybe…Clayface?”

            “Anyone alive who’s ever used that name,” replied Damian, “is securely locked away in Arkham.”

            “Some other shape-shifter, then?”

            Letting out a frustrated breath, Damian scrutinized his brother. “You’re so desperate to believe he’s guiltless,” he said, “you may be missing something right under us.”

            Something about Damian’s use of the word _us_ scraped against Tim, made some dull pain pound at the back of his head. “Regardless,” he said, “there’s something about this we don’t understand.”

            “Really?” asked Damian, sounding mildly impressed. “Is that so?”

            “Shut up,” Tim shot at him. There was an uneasy silence; Damian waited for Tim to continue. And then, finally, as if it were physically painful for Tim to speak these treasonous words, he began, “You don’t think… there’s no way he has access to your Gibraltar account, does he?”

            “No,” replied Damian simply. “It’s managed solely by my mother.” He added, “The transfer on the same day is, in my professional opinion,” Tim actually _did_ roll his eyes at that, “completely unrelated.”

            There was a short silence. And then Tim asked hurriedly, “You don’t think there’s any chance Talia’s – I don’t know, blackmailing him, or something?”

            “With what?” asked Damian cynically. “If she were threatening to make my parentage public – well, it’s a moot point now, isn’t it?”

            “There are ways,” said Tim, rationally, if a little uncomfortably. “Things she could use. To make him do what she wants.”

            Damian narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

            Tim didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. His silence rang louder than the answer would have. _You._

            Defeated, Tim closed the analytical program on the computer before him, gathering some of the papers into a pile. He glanced up at Damian, who was staring sourly before him in silence. “Where is Ellen, anyway?” he asked. “Isn’t she supposed to be living here too?”

            “She’s with her team,” answered Damian. “They’re on a case. A number of cases, actually.” He said nothing. Tim reached across the table, picking up the rest of the papers, glancing cautiously at Damian. There was a starved, empty sort of look on his face as he said, abruptly, “Colin is still missing.”

            Outside, the sun dipped just below the horizon, lengthening the shadows in the dining room, the last vestiges of golden light refracting through the tall windows behind them. Day became dusk, the twilit violet hours.

            Sympathy stirred somewhere deep in Tim, and he did his best to beat down his pride and began, “Look, if you ever need any help-”

            There was a shrill, piercing noise, and Damian instantly had his communicator up to his ear. “Robin,” he said, and the timber of his voice changed, his back straightening slightly as he slipped into the persona. Whoever it was answered him, and his eyes narrowed slightly; a moment later, Tim’s personal Red Robin communicator lit up as well, and he peered at the message coming through. The door opened again, Alfred appeared.

            “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice unusually strained, “there appears to be a…situation at Arkham Asylum.”

            Damian was already out of his seat, heading towards the Cave. Tim looked at the mess on the table before him, then helplessly up at Alfred, who nodded slightly, as if saying, _Go_.

            They left the Cave separately; but then again, Tim thought, Damian was not quite yet prepared for a Robin-Red Robin team-up. No matter how easily they could discuss a case, especially one as delicate as that which hovered between them, there was always some degree of bitterness in the way they regarded one another. They had grown out of mere dislike for each other years ago, but something lingered, something that sat unflinchingly between them, blocking them whenever they started to get too close.

            It was, as Damian could see from afar, police sirens wailing around him, smoking billowing from the old, gothic building, a total disaster zone.

            “What happened?” demanded Damian, through his commlink to Ellen.

            She replied between thrusting breaths, in the middle of a fight. “Don’t know the details,” she replied. “Seraph picked it up, Jabberwock and I got here right away. Spoiler just arrived, Lux is on his way.” She gave a loud shout, as if to emphasize a blow.

            “What’s it look like?”

            “Mostly – _ung_ – metas out of their cages. Not everyone’s busted out, it’s not a riot, but maybe more like – a – an attack, or something.”

            “Are you all right?”

            “I could really use-” a sharp intake of breath, like she’d been hit, “-some backup.”

            “I’m here,” said Damian, screeching to a halt before the huge building, abandoning the motorcycle and running into the fray. Ellen had been right: the place was crawling with metas, vicious and dangerous and certifiably insane. Damian narrowly dodged a blow from an oversized creature with a blunt, noseless face, then swung around, expertly knocking the thing to the ground, then applying pressure until it passed out. Others descended upon him and he was barely inside the building, and his own defense became a matter of methodical destruction. Shouting through the madness, still connected to Ellen, he yelled, “Where are you?”

            “East Wing, the Wayne Ward,” she panted in reply. “Spoiler and I were rounding things up back here, but Ivy just showed up, so we’re-” she was cut off, the breath knocked out of her; she wheezed, “ _kind of busy_.” With a few seconds of loud, gulping breath, she continued, “Jabberwock’s throwing down with Croc in the grounds outside, police are already with her, and I haven’t seen him yet but Jabberwock says Clayface is in the main building – we’re doing all we can, but there are still staff inside, we need the police on evac right away-”

            Damian’s foot collided with a set of teeth, and then he paused, in a low crouch, body tense. The center hall of Arkham Asylum arched gracefully above him, and he repeated, defensively, “Clayf-”  

            The jolting force threw across the room, sending him spinning across the floor, crashing into the wall, but it was nothing compared to the momentary feeling that his heart stopped, as it beat so rapidly his pulse disappeared, just for an instant, and then he clutched his chest, in pain like someone had dropped an anvil on lungs, and the shock in his eyes disappeared long enough for him to see blinding shoots of white lightning pulsing through a giant, gelatinous creature.

            Body seemingly melting slightly, Clayface’s giant, impermanent form collapsed, and another man, in black and white and shockingly bright yellow appeared, leaning over Damian worriedly. “Sorry, Robin,” said Lucas, his self-consciousness out-of-place in what seemed like a war zone. “I didn’t mean to shock you, I just had to get you out of the way-”

            “Shut up, Lux,” he muttered, shaking off help, getting to his feet. “Your job’s not over yet.”

            Clayface indeed seemed to be moving again, and Lucas turned around quickly, arms up, electricity crackling between his fingers. Damian touched his commlink and asked, “Jabberwock, do you need backup?”

            “Nope!” came Jordan’s voice, full of characteristic vindictive glee. There was a short grunt as, presumably, she tackled someone – something – to the ground, and she said, “Gotham’s finest are kinda lookin’ for something to do, though, if you ask me!”

            Damian headed back out of the place; police cars were skidding to a halt, and out of the one nearest to Damian stepped Renee Montoya, holding her gun. “Robin,” she called, “what’s going on?”

            Briefly, he evaluated the situation, then added, “Get your team to evacuate the building, make sure everybody’s out, and then we’ll talk!”

            At that moment, Red Robin finally arrived, appearing beside Damian and instantly saying, “Get in there, I’ll direct things here.”

            Without another word, Damian dived back into the building. A burning, acrid smoke wafted his way as he clambered through the halls, taking down anyone in his way, although he could not tell from where exactly the fire was coming.

            A booming explosion, and then a burst of people came flooding out of a destroyed wall. Damian tensed, ready to attack, but he saw the terrified looks on their faces and the uniforms they wore, and realized they were doctors, nurses, and staff. Spoiler, in her vivid purple, black hair curling out at the edges of her hood, came bounding out with them. “Robin!” she called. “I’m getting these people out! Ember’s still back there!”

            He nodded, and as the last stragglers came running out, he ran through the gaping hole in the wall, searching for-

            With a loud _thunk_ , Ellen was thrown against a wall, her mask obscuring the pain in her face. As she got back on her feet, Damian went to her side. “Are you all right?”

            “You should see the other girl,” she replied darkly.

            “Ivy?”

            She nodded; the thin material over her mouth was stained a darker red than the rest of the fabric from, at the very least, a bleeding lip. “She’s mad,” Ellen said. “She was just throwing us around – I don’t think she really thought we were a threat.”

            “But?”

            “But then we blasted one of her precious plant babies into a million pieces,” she said. “So I think she might be a little upset.”

            As if on cue, Poison Ivy, hair a gash of blood in an oceanic expanse of organic green, appeared before them, letting out a primal yell, a thick vine crashing towards them; they evaded, taking short refuge behind a section of the wall that had been blown out, shielding them for a precious moment.

            “There’s a fire here somewhere,” said Damian to Ellen seriously. “There are inmates still trapped in their cells, and GCPD can’t be any farther than the main building yet.”

            “Spoiler can handle it,” replied Ellen impatiently.

            “She can’t,” he emphasized, “she’s busy getting staff out, but there will be _no deaths tonight_ , and that means we need to get those people out of their cells-”

            “So what?” demanded Ellen. “You’re going to face Ivy alone?”

            “ _Ember_ ,” he said forcefully, “I carry antidotes to her toxins in my belt, you do not, this is simple logistics here-”

            Without hesitation, before he even finished speaking, she said, “Fine,” and she reached out, took firm hold of his arm, and then she was gone.

            Before returning to the fray, Damian placed a small mask over his face, to filter out Ivy’s weaponized pheromones. Then he returned to the fight, leaping over the debris behind which he hid, throwing Batarangs at the woman. Some cut her, but most exploded when they landed, cutting her off from the plants she was controlling. She shouted again, and Damian called, “Pamela! Calm down! None of us want to hurt you!”

            She did not reply, even to taunt; she surged forward again, attacking him indiscriminately, and he narrowly avoided her. Something was not right. Nothing about the way she moved, the way she’d let out a guttural scream, sounded like the Poison Ivy he had fought many times before. Again, she almost hit him; he realized that he was relying too much on his previous experience with her, anticipating what she’d do based on their battles in the past. With the wild, uncontrolled look in her eye and the trembling movement of her body, it occurred to him that this would no longer be enough.

            Almost out of long-range weapons, he shot a line towards her, swinging forward. If he could just engage her for a moment hand-to-hand, he was sure he could knock her unconscious – or at the very least disorient her – instead of merely fighting the huge, writhing plants she controlled.

            Before he could get close enough to touch her, hand reaching behind his shoulder to unsheathe his blade, her vines shot out and caught him, immobilizing him. He had not anticipated this kind of speed from her, and he struggled against his tight binds. She approached him, and she came close enough that he could see the odd, glassy quality to her eyes. She held out a hand, the tips of her fingers brushing against his chin, her fingernails slipping underneath the mask over his mouth. Through gritted teeth he growled, “ _Ivy_ …” and then, with a colossal lurch, he wrenched his steel from its case and, grunting with effort, sliced himself free.

            In the same moment as the vines fell slack against his body, Ivy let out a terrible scream, and collapsed. For a moment panic rose in him, mixed with confusion because he _knew_ he hadn’t hit her, and then-

            Jumping down from her perch atop a pile of rubble, a woman grinned at him. Her mask was little more than dark makeup smeared around her eyes, and black hair cropped into a perfect bob hung underneath her hood.

            “Need some help, Robin?” asked Arsenal, replacing the firearm she’d just used on Ivy in her belt.

            “Don’t put that away,” he shot back; Ivy was stirring before them. “We’re not done just yet.”

            Poison Ivy whipped her head around, red hair swinging dangerously, eyes landing on Lian like a thousand daggers, and with pure fury coalescing into a shout from the green woman’s mouth, sent vines speeding towards her. Lithely, Lian dodged; one caught her arm and, barely glancing around, she shot at it, then shook it off. Damian sliced through the vicious plants before Ivy; with her attention focused on Lian, he was able to get his arm around her neck in a chokehold, and, with a scream of rage, she flipped him over her, losing her balance slightly but still slamming Damian’s back into the ground hard. “Robin,” called Lian, and he let go of Ivy just in time to catch something Lian had thrown at him, and then he stared into Ivy’s rancorous face and he said to her, “Doctor Isley, I am doing this for your own good,” and he sprayed a sticky substance into her face, covering her eyes, nose and mouth. It was porous enough that she could still breathe through it, but only enough oxygen passed through it for under a minute, and then she would pass out.

            Her scream was muted by the substance, and she stumbled backwards, fingernails scrabbling at her covered face; the huge plants, still under her control, thrashed wildly.

            Lian went to him. “You hurt?” she asked, helping him up.

            “Not fatally, no.” Reproachfully, he added, “You need a mask. You know you’re just as susceptible to her pheromones as I am.”

            “Probably more,” she agreed sunnily. “To be honest, she’s a babe, I was kind of hoping for a kiss.”

            “ _Arsenal_ -”

            “I’m kidding. I was on the other side of town when I got the call. I didn’t have the time for extra supplies. You just worry about yourself, big boy.”

            She kept a weapon in hand, watching Ivy struggle. Damian followed her gaze, and they did not move. “She’s almost out,” he said to Lian. “Thanks for the assist.”

            “Any time,” she replied, but her eyes were still focused on the green woman before them. “Robin – she doesn’t look like she’s slowing down-”

            The roaring scream was muffled by the material on her face, but then with a wiggling, shuddering power, a huge, thorny root, like something from a gigantic tree, slammed against Ivy’s face, the soft wood scraping at the dried substance. Lian let out an expletive and Damian, in shocked astonishment, called, “ _Ivy!_ ”

            As the root pulled away from her face, falling limply on the ground, she sneered at them. The thin layer that had been restricting her breath was broken, exposing her mouth and nose, from which blood flowed openly. “ _Damn_ it!” said Lian, and any trace of amusement was gone. “What the hell was that?”

            Damian didn’t respond; the strange look in Poison Ivy’s eye had intensified, and something seemed so off, although he had no time to ponder. He said, “You go high, I’ll-.”

            “Yep,” said Lian, nodding and moving into action. This was an old formation that used to require a few of their other teammates, back when they were on the Titans together, but they could execute it flawlessly with just the two of them, especially considering there was only one target. While Lian distracted Ivy with long-range shots, Damian darted towards her, disappearing for a moment. Then, right when Ivy was in the middle of a particularly vicious attack – Lian narrowly dodged poison darts shot from the plants – Damian appeared behind her, and, in a shallow, juvenile move, he kicked out her knees, making her lose her balance, and then took her by the shoulder and rammed Ivy’s body into the ground, back first. The plants collapsed as this knocked the breath out of her, and he heard her gasping for air.

            _Blam_. Ivy’s body convulsed slightly, and then there were two more shots fired, and then she was still. Damian could see no visible blood, but, cautiously, he glanced around to look at Lian.

            “What was that?” he asked her, as Lian approached him, limping slightly.

            “Pesticide,” replied Lian.

            He looked up at her.

            “Joking,” she said. “Again. Jesus. Robin needs a chill pill.” She replaced her weapon in the holster around her thigh, then adjusted the wig on her head, slightly askew. “Big game-grade tranqs. Nothing else was working, thought I’d pull out the big guns.” She paused, as if considering the pun, and then added, “Literally.”

            There was a silence. Then Damian knelt down and bound Ivy’s wrists, knowing that the tranquilizers would last long enough to get her back in containment.

            Lian remarked, “Haven’t done that in a while.”  
            Damian said nothing.

            “Gotta admit, I kind of miss the one-on-one team-ups.”

            “Arsenal,” said Damian, getting up and looking at her. “We haven’t had a one-on-one team-up since you were thirteen years old.”

            She grinned at him, cocking her head. “I’ll admit, this was a lot more fun than that one was.”

            For a second, he considered replying to this, then shook his head. “Keep an eye on her until we get the police in here.” She nodded. “Don’t be seen.”

            “I know,” she said. “I know. Everybody knows who I am now.” The grin on her face was sincere and inviting. “Kinda makes me nostalgic. I haven’t been outed since high school.”

            He regarded her warily, then headed back through the building.

            The rest of the chaos was winding down. Jordan was still handling the bigger metas, but at this point, she was just playing with them. She had so few instances to use the extent of her true strength, and she was reveling in the opportunity. Lucas was binding the metas Damian had taken down when he entered, Clayface in a veritable puddle on the floor. “He’ll be all right,” Lucas said uneasily, as Damian passed him. “The electrical currents just destabilize him a little bit. But – I mean – he’ll be fine. Really.”

            He had that tone in his voice – as always, when he was not with Colin – that stank of searching for approval and validation, as if waiting for Damian to say, “Yes, of course. Good job, Lux.”

            Damian said nothing. It just underscored the fact that Colin was not there, and remembering this only made Damian feel unwell.

            Outside, a line of inmates were handcuffed to police cars, some of them muttering to themselves, others looking around clearly and lucidly, watching the smoke coming from the building with vague disinterest. Into his commlink, Damian said, “Ember, what’s your status?”

            “I’m with Spoiler,” she replied. “We’re fine. Fire crew is here, we’re just taking care of a few stragglers.”

            “I left Poison Ivy in the East Wing,” he said. “Wayne Ward. If anyone’s searching the building, direct them that way.”

            “Understood.”

            He closed the connection, then, in the darkness, he searched for a familiar face. Before he found her, however, a familiar voice pierced the night: “Robin! Robin! Over here!”

            With no trace of reluctance, Damian dutifully headed towards a woman who was sitting on the ground, wrist cuffed to a car, legs splayed out in front of her. Long blonde hair was collected into two loose pigtails, spilling down the shoulders of her uniform. He glanced at the cop standing by the back of the car, who pointedly looked the other way, then Damian knelt down beside the woman.

            “Hello, Harley,” he said patiently. “Can you tell me what happened?”

            “That depends,” she sniffed, arms crossed. “You gonna get me out of here?”

            “No,” he replied bluntly.

            “Why _not?_ I don’t deserve to be locked up with all these crazies!”

            “You violated your parole,” he pointed out. “And you blew up a bank.”

            “Well, yeah,” she replied reasonably, “but they was bein’ mean! It’s not like I was tryin’ to steal anything!”

            He looked at her skeptically.

            She added, “OK, so I took a little money, but who hasn’t-”

            “Harley,” he interrupted. “What happened?”

            She eyed him suspiciously. “You got cameras in there.”

            “I mean,” said Damian, his voice hard, “with Ivy.”

            Harleen Quinzel scrutinized him carefully. Then she asked, “How’d you know something’s up with Pam?”

            “I know her,” replied Damian, “just as well as I know you.”

            “Aw,” said Harley, her face splitting into a grin. “Ain’t that sweet.”

            “What happened?” he pressed again. “Poison? A bug, or something?”

            “I dunno,” said Harley, with an honest shrug. “She’s been kinda weird lately. Ever since they split us up.”

            “Split you up?”

            “Yeah,” she replied indignantly. “We used to be cellmates, you know? And she got all stinky about it sometimes, but you know she loves me.” The sincere look on Harley’s face was such that Damian could not disagree. “Anyway, maybe, I don’t know, a month ago or somethin’ – they put us in separate cells! All alone, too. I mean, everybody knows I don’t always get ‘long with everybody – but come on! I was all by myself!” Her annoyance dissipated, replaced with an odd sort of conspiratorial look, she added wisely, “You know, that’s prob’ly why Pam went for that guard in the first place.”

            Damian narrowed his eyes. “What guard?” he asked.

            “I dunno which one,” said Harley, with a shrug. “Just that he was gettin’ kinda sweet on her. Probably not after this, though.” She laughed, high and loud, like a giddy hyena. “I mean, she was lookin’ to give ‘im a good time, but he wasn’t lookin’ to get her out. Know what I mean?”

            Gravely, Damian straightened up, nodding. “I do, Harley,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

            “Pam’s OK, right?” she asked, for the first time showing something like genuine concern. “You didn’t beat her up too bad?”

            “No, I didn’t,” replied Damian. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you back together.”

            “Aw, yeah!” she said, delightedly. “Thanks, Robin! You tell your big guy I say hi!”

            Damian turned around to look at the building again. And then, another familiar voice: “Hey, Robin.”

            He turned around. Renee Montoya stood there, watching him.

            “Inspector,” he said.

            “You want to help me out?” she asked, peering at him through the darkness, artificially lit by the police lights. “One of the inmates knows something. But he’s not talking.”

            After a moment, he begrudgingly bowed his head, and followed Montoya to what he saw to be her own squad car. Standing with one wrist cuffed tightly to the car, a tall man with a grin disfigured by the harsh, ugly burns on half of his face stood, turning a silver dollar over and over again in his hand.

            “Dent,” said Damian, with distaste. “I hear you have something to say to me.”

            The grotesque smile only widened.

            “Harvey,” said Montoya roughly. “If you know something…”

            His eyes slid to her. “Maybe I do,” he said. “Maybe I don’t.”

            There was a pause, and then Montoya rolled her eyes, glancing around slightly, murmuring, “Christ.”

            “I have neither the time nor tolerance to put up with your games tonight,” said Damian, without patience. “You tell me what you know, or I’ll have Inspector Montoya here look away for a few minutes, and you’ll be eating through a straw for a month.”

            Two-Face grinned at Damian. Then, slowly, he maneuvered the coin to lie on his thumbnail, and then, almost casually, he flicked upwards.

            The coin seemed to toss in the air for an eternity, in slow motion. Damian did not glance away from the man’s face.  After a moment, the coin landed on Harvey’s open palm. He broke Damian’s gaze, then his grin widened, and he held up his hand, showing it to Damian.

            “Nope,” he said, a large X carved into the head on the coin. “I don’t know anything.”

            Roughly, Damian grabbed the man’s collar; Harvey Dent was a tall man, but in the past few years Damian had grown to nearly his father’s size, and so he was eye-level with the ex-attorney, baring his teeth dangerously.

            It was Inspector Montoya that stopped him. “Robin,” she said, reaching out to put a cautionary hand on his arm. “He’s not going to tell you. Not now that he’s tossed the damn thing.”          

            Damian glared into the other man’s face for another moment, and then relented, letting him go. “I know,” he said shortly. “Keep an eye on him.” Glancing at Montoya, he added, “And you need to look into the Arkham guards on duty.” At Montoya’s look, he said, “Ask Harley.” He slipped away. Connected to the team’s collective commlink, he said, “Status report.”

            “Lugging the big guys back to their cages,” replied Jordan, with a cheerful grunt. “You’d need a crane for some of these guys, wow.”

            Nell replied, “I’m on damage control.”

            Ellen: “I think we’re done here. I’ll get back on patrol ASAP.”

            “I’m already out,” came Lucas’s voice, the meekness still there. “Heading back to the city now.”

            “Any casualties?”

            “No,” said Nell, and they all could detect the relief in her voice. “Nothing worse than a few bumps and bruises we handed out.”

            “Excellent,” said Damian, and the praise in his voice was earnest and simple. “Good work. That could have been much worse.”

            “No kidding,” grunted Jordan, and there was an emphatic crashing sound behind her; with a laugh, she added, “I’m OK.”

            Red Robin appeared beside Damian, stepping over the debris. He caught Damian’s eye, then said, “You can get out of here. If there’s anything else, I’ll handle it.”

            Damian nodded, but did not reply, still connected to his team. Reaching up to silence the commlink, it suddenly burst to life with another voice: “Kane and Robinson,” said Niloufar urgently, something bordering on panic in her voice. “Whoever’s closest, get there _now_.”

            “I’m just re-entering Gotham,” came Lucas’s voice – Damian was impressed with how quickly he responded, considering his normal hesitance. “I’ll head that way now.”

            Damian held up a hand to Tim, who just nodded, and then Damian went back to where his bike was stationed, getting on and revving away from the scene. “What’s going on?” he asked as he did so.

            “Our monster,” replied Niloufar, the panic giving way to a hardness, “it’s out there, on the move.”

            Damian accelerated, heading into Gotham. Niloufar relayed the details to Lucas, who did not sound afraid, although Damian knew that he was. The kid was determined and well-meaning, but he was the least experienced out of the group, and victim to the fatal flaw of not yet being fully secure in his powers. He was frightened of his abilities, and so he did not control them: they controlled him.

            As soon as Damian was across the bridge, he knew that he was not far away from Lucas and the monster, whatever it was. “I’ve got a visual,” said Lucas, his unshaking voice coming to Damian and the others over their commlink. “It’s – it’s moving fast, and-” he trailed off in what sounded like uncertainty, and then, just as abruptly: “It’s got somebody! It’s-”

            “Lux,” shouted Damian, over the roaring of his motorcycle, “if you are in range, take the shot. Whatever it is, it’s big enough that you can use your power to the fullest extent, and-”

            There was a sharp, gasping sound from Lucas’s end. Inwardly, Damian cursed, and he accelerated even further, pushing the machine under him to its limits; it shuddered and growled in protest.

            “Lux,” repeated Damian – the memory of being on the line as Colin let out a screaming breath was fresh and painful – “if you can hear me, do not engage in hand-to-hand, use your abilities-” the tracking device in his bike lit up, and he saw the small dot which represented Lucas “-I’m almost there, keep an eye on him, I-”

            He skidded down a small street, broken streetlights lining the street. In the darkness, there was a dead end before him. Lucas stood, frozen and helpless, before a heaping mess of blood and decimated flesh. The monster was nowhere to be seen. Damian brought his bike to a stop and then stared at Lucas, unmoving for a second.

            And then he climbed off of his motorcycle, and he asked, his voice low and dangerous, “What the hell happened here?”

            Lucas didn’t move, staring at the sight before them. His face was pale.

            “You had it,” said Damian, his voice rising, “in your _sight_. You must have been close enough to hit it.”

            Silence. Damian followed Lucas’s gaze, glancing at the body. The head was still mostly intact. It was a man with dark hair.

            “ _Dammit_ ,” Damian swore, tearing his gaze away. “God _damn_ it, Lux, you had that thing right in front of you! You could’ve taken it out with _one move_ , and you-” he looked at the body again, and, holding back a scream of rage, he kicked, hard, at his motorcycle; it fell pitifully into the gutter. “Lux,” he said, his voice low and hissing and made of pure poison, “why didn’t you take the _goddamn shot_ -”

            “It’s Colin.”

            Damian looked at him, wretched fury on his face, then he glanced back at the body. “No it _isn’t_ , Lux, this is not the time for-”

            “No,” said Lucas, his voice shaking, looking up at Damian. “The…thing. I saw its face.” He stared at Damian, his face petrified, awful and horrified. Again, he repeated: “It’s Colin.”

            A weight dropped hollowly into Damian’s stomach, and the dread blooming in his chest had never been deeper.


	11. Consolidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consolidation
> 
> The improvement of a player's position by the reposition of one or more pieces to better square(s), typically after a player's attack or combination has left his pieces in poor positions or uncoordinated.

            “But, Lucas,” began Nell tentatively. “Are you  _sure?_ ”

            Lucas sat dully on the medical table in the Haven; this was Niloufar’s base and headquarters. It was the first time they had all been there at the same time. “Yes,” Lucas replied miserably, as Niloufar carefully inspected him for injuries. “I could even tell from the way he moved.”

            “So what?” asked Jordan, hovering above them. “Our boy gets hopped up and goes all Freddy Kreuger on unsuspecting citizens?”

            “Could be something like that,” replied Ellen, glancing at her. “His powers have been inconsistent lately. Maybe something happened, triggering a response like this.”

            “Yeah,” offered Nell. “I mean, he’s obviously transformed. Maybe he can’t get back down?”

            For the first time, Damian spoke, hanging back behind them all, arms folded, watching Lucas. “That’s true,” he said. “And he’s nearly invulnerable in that form.” There was a silence, and nobody spoke because it was such a calculated pause: and then Damian said, his voice low, “Which means you could have hit him at full power.”

            Lucas rubbed self-consciously at his wrists, glancing up at Damian nervously. After a moment, Ellen leaned forward, as if to intervene on Lucas’s behalf, and then Lucas surprised them all by saying, quietly, “The last time I used my powers on someone I loved, Robin,” he met Damian’s gaze, his black eyes clearer than they had ever seen; softly, he finished, “I killed them.”

            There was a silence. Damian looked away. It had, after all, been Robin himself who’d defended Lucas then, years ago, when his powers were first manifesting and a single accident had cost the life of Lucas’s father.

             After a moment’s pause, Niloufar spoke. “It’s more than possible that Colin’s powers caused this,” noted Niloufar, going back to Lucas, peering into his eyes. “It could be that the toxin just degraded in his system, enough to catch up with his psyche.”

            “What does that mean?” asked Lucas, gently prying Niloufar’s hands away from him.

            “Well,” replied Niloufar, stepping away from him. “It’s not like he didn’t have problems to begin with. He was always a little bit unstable, what with his anger issues and, you know, his upbringing.”

            “Upbringing?” repeated Jordan testily, alighting on the ground. “What, you think this is because he’s a poor kid?”

            “I’m just _noting_ ,” stressed Niloufar, “that he has a record of behavioral problems. A long history of paranoia and violence starting when he was just a child.”

            “We all have our issues,” said Ellen carefully, without glancing at Damian. “That still doesn’t explain why someone abducted him in the first place.”

            “Why are we even still assuming that?” asked Niloufar. “Maybe he just broke. Up and left on his own. There doesn’t necessarily have to be a criminal mastermind in his case.” She looked at them all, then gave a small shrug. “Maybe if that drug trial had started just a few days earlier, he’d still be here.”

            “No,” said Damian suddenly.

            They all looked to him. He stared off past them, a crease in his brow, eyes narrowed in concentration.

            “No, no,” he repeated vaguely, as if lost in thought. “We’re looking at this wrong. I’m not seeing something.” He trailed off. He murmured, “There’s a connection here.”

            “Between what?” asked Niloufar doubtfully.

            He glared up at her. “The people who were killed before him,” he said. “With the poison in them. And then – the chess pieces.” Ellen looked at him; he had not yet shared with the rest of the team his discovery of the rook on his bed. Distractedly, he continued, “And now, the timing. Right after Arkham, after – Ivy…” he paused. He was almost there; he could feel it. There was something key he was missing, some connection just out of his reach.

            “And everything else,” said Nell.

            Everyone – Damian included – looked up at her. “What do you mean, _everything else?_ ” asked Niloufar, but then Ellen looked back to Damian, something dawning on her face.

            “She’s right,” said Ellen. “Robin, we’ve been treating this as two separate incidents, but – the trouble you’re in.” He watched her, listening to every word. “It’s an attack,” she asserted, “on two fronts. And they’re not unrelated.” She paused. “Somebody knows,” she said, “and it’s somebody close enough to _you_ to pull this off.”

            Damian watched her, and then, slowly pulled his eyes away. “You’re right,” he murmured. “With what’s happening to my family. And.” He broke off suddenly, eyes widening. Then he looked back at Ellen, understanding coming to him with a jolt. “And my father,” he said, his voice low and soft.

            He looked at her grimly, his gaze hard, the silence becoming heavy and loud, enveloping them.

\----

            Damian rode to the station in the back of a police car.

            Inspector Montoya glanced back at him. “Sorry about this,” she said, her eyes on the road. “Protocol, and everything.”

            “It’s quite all right,” he replied, glancing out the tinted windows. “I appreciate the privacy. It’s difficult for me to come into Gotham unnoticed anymore, and no one expects me to be arriving in a police car.”

            There was a silence between them. Then she replied, “Well. Some people might.”

            A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “Been reading the tabloids, Inspector Montoya?”

            “No. Court records, on the other hand…”

            He looked up. He could see part of her face in the reflection of the rearview mirror; she stared straight ahead at the street before her. Leaning in towards the grate separating them, he said, “You’ve known my family for a long time, Inspector. I would be surprised to think you so easily believe what they say about me.”

            To this, she did not immediately reply. She seemed to be holding her mouth closed, the inside of her cheek tucked in between her molars. After another moment, she said briefly, “No. I don’t know your family, Mister Wayne. But I do know that all you rich guys are the same, when it comes down to it. You think a little bit of charity work makes everything else you do OK.” She did not, he observed, glance back at him. “Now someone caught you stealing from said charity, and you got a bad case of the can’t-talk-your-way-outta-this-one. So no, I don’t _easily_ believe what they’ve been saying about you.” A car with bright headlights passed them, illuminating her dark face starkly, sending her features into harsh relief. “But they’ve got a case against you, that’s for sure.”

            Damian did not move. And then he leaned back into his seat, peering out the window, adjusting his tie.

            “Thank you for your honesty,” he said.

            She only nodded, her lips tightly pressed together.

            When she led him into the precinct, no one looked up, and he noticed. It was a pointed sort of not-look, and he walked without glancing around or bowing, following Montoya until she led him to a room, one hand firmly but inconsequentially placed on her belt, where she held her gun. She opened a door, and he did not look at her, but he stood without moving for a second. He adjusted his suit jacket, and the watch around his wrist. Then he strode into the room, back straight, jaw taut, eyes alert.

            Already seated at the table before him, Sophia Moss glanced up, a smile dribbling onto her face. The door closed behind him. He met her gaze for a moment. He moved to the table, and took a seat across from her, folders and printed pages placed erratically on the table in between them.

            “Good morning, Mister Wayne,” she said eagerly, leaning across the table, holding out her hand. Saying nothing, he shook it, eyes never leaving her face. “I can only hope today finds you in the best of tempers.” Her smile was like a tropical storm, a bushfire, the tiny swell of a tsunami a mile offshore. “You might need it.”

            “I was told you had something of importance you wanted to address,” he said smoothly. Her smile did not falter, but he could see the curiosity in her eyes blooming with a twitch of irritation. The coolness in his eyes oozed triumph, and he could see it digging under her skin.

            “The Neon Knights budget for last month,” she said, passing a sheet of paper across the table, towards him. He took it, inspecting the numbers. Everything was identical to the official records. “Eight hundred thousand dollars.” She paused. “Hm.”

            Damian nodded, handing the paper back to her. “It pains me,” he said. “Too many children benefit from the Foundation to have it exploited like this.”

            “Yes,” she said. The smile was no more than baring her teeth. “This brings the missing funds to well over a million dollars.”

            “It does. Shameful, isn’t it?”

            With a great deal of pleasure, he noted that her eyes flickered slightly at this, as if she was preventing herself from narrowing them in suspicion. The look did not last long, though, and she smiled sweetly, if not tightly, as she slid something else across the table to him, pointing at a line with her pen. “That same day, _two_ million dollars was transferred into your offshore account.”

            Damian inspected the page before him carefully. And then he looked up at her. “Yes,” he said simply.

            She watched him, waiting, he thought, for the other shoe to drop. It did not. She continued, “This is money that’s been used to fund Lian Harper. You’ve admitted to working with her.”

            “Funding her,” he corrected pointedly, but she ignored this.

            “We have records that you knew of her whereabouts and activities,” she said. “Which necessitates that you also knew those of her partner.”

            This was unexpected. A chill ran through Damian’s blood, close to the surface of his skin, it seemed. “What partner?” he asked. “It was mere money. You can’t expect me to have kept track of everyone she ever worked with.”

            “No,” agreed Ms. Moss. “But let’s be clear, Mister Wayne. I know you know the name Iris West.”

            He said nothing.

            “I know you know,” she continued, “that she was reported missing over a month ago.”

            With the tip of her pen, she gently pointed to a line on the paper before him: financial records. Specifically the date of the transfer to his Gibraltar account.

            “I know,” she said, her voice very slow, “that _you_ know the date Miss West disappeared.”

            He stared at her.

            “You knew where she was based before that,” she said. “You had access to their safehouses, because they were yours. Not to mention the fact I’ve already covered.” Although it had faded a few minutes ago, for the first time Damian noticed she was no longer smiling. “Your mother,” she continued, “is associated with the largest and most infamous organization of assassins this world knows.” Her mouth hung open slightly, as if she were still purring a word, but no sound came out of her mouth until she continued, so softly, “Iris West was operating under a presumed name. She and Miss Harper had taken extreme security measures. I doubt there was a soul on Earth who knew exactly where they were,” the slightest hesitation, “except for you. You,” she continued, the strength rushing back to her voice, no longer kind, “raised by an assassin, who received a large payment the day after Iris West disappeared, Mister Wayne-” she held out her hands, as if to ask, _what can I say?_ “-this puts you in a _very_ bad position.”

            Damian said nothing.

            Vaguely, it occurred to him that he had never in his life seen anything so devastatingly repulsive as the glorious, self-satisfied sheen in her eyes.

            There was, he thought, a difference between being backed into a corner, and being driven up the wall, sliced into thin strips and laid out underneath a microscope, sitting before her with a bright light shining into everything that he could not deny. Bizarrely, he felt no distress, but instead mere a nebulous sense of annoyance at the fact that this woman had so precisely cut him into small, comprehensible chunks.

            The reality behind Iris’s disappearance was simple, and he got the profound feeling that the woman before him knew that. But he could not say it out loud, not in a police station, not in a courtroom, not anywhere it could be put on record. Iris’s family was not public for a very valid reason, and he could not justify robbing them of their safety in order to secure his own. This was all very clear to him, and, he thought, to Ms. Moss as well.

            Previously, his fury towards the attorney before him had been burning hot. In his mind’s eye, he could see the imaginary bruises where his fingers would have wrapped around her neck, and, with a loose, analytical indifference, he remembered the pleasure he felt at the idea of tearing her to pieces, releasing every destructive urge that had been building up inside of him for years onto this one woman, the ultimate symbol of recent misfortune, the root, it seemed, of all the ways his life, so easy and simple two months ago, had become a spinning gyre of isolated calamity.

            Calmly, he said, “There was something you said to me. In court.”

            She blinked at him, eyes wide. “I said many things to you, in court.”

            “I didn’t think much of it at first,” he told her. “The timing was impeccable. That much I’ll give to you, although I’m not sure it was completely intentional.”

            “I can assure you,” she cut him off, before he continued, “whatever it was, it was completely intentional.”

            She smiled again, like a star in the night sky blinking out of existence, consumed by the sucking rage of a black hole.

            He met her gaze lifelessly, then continued, “I wasn’t raised to believe in coincidence, Miz Moss.”

            The smile did not waver. She leaned forward, and when she spoke, her voice was hardly above a breath. It could not have been heard by any camera or audio recorder.

            She murmured to him: “And I wasn’t paid to do so, Mister Wayne.”

            They stared at each other, neither of them daring to look away.

            Shortly, Damian asked, “Is your employer still in Gotham? He had to have been several weeks ago, at the very least.”

            “Oh?” There was a glint in her eye. “How do you know?”

            “This,” he replied simply, taking one of the papers from before him, holding it up. “This eight hundred thousand dollars, that’s how I know. You knew we’d figure it out. So your employer did the one thing he could to ensure that, once we had proof I’d been framed, we’d do our very best to bury it. God knows we don’t have an alibi. God knows this – all of this – is sickeningly plausible.”

            “Yes,” she said, seeming pleased. “It is.”

            A silence. He stared at her. “So what?” he asked, his voice sharp and many-faceted, like the cut diamond set into his fiancée’s ring. “You’ll hunt the innocent for payment? You can be bought?”

            Her head rotated ever so slightly, stopping slightly cocked on her shoulders. Her voice in a low hush, she answered, “I can be convinced.”

            She pulled away from him, and Damian sat there, wanting so badly to hurt this woman.

            Sophia Moss, a prosecuting attorney with so little, Damian thought, really invested in this case, said smartly, “I have a message for you. From my employer, if you were ever to connect the dots.”

            “Oh really?” asked Damian. “What’s that?”

            “Mister Wayne.” Her eyes flashed at him. “We make war that we may live in peace.”

            Roaring, grinding silence between them. He identified the source of the quote. “Aristotle.”

            She only nodded.

            He got to his feet, readjusting his suit. “I have a reply for him,” he said, with no trace of malice. “It’s not his favorite philosopher, but I think he will appreciate its significance nonetheless.” Sophia Moss did not glance away, only watched him brightly. Eyes scrutinizing her carefully, he said, “Tell Tommy Elliot, _Fiat iusticia_ ,” his eyes bored into hers, “ _et pereat mundus_.”

            The look on her face was nothing more extreme than pleasant satisfaction. “Latin?” she asked.

            “Yes,” he replied, moving to the door of the room, voice tinged only with polite unconcern. “It means, _I will burn you to the fucking ground_.”

            Damian, for the first time since he had first laid eyes on the woman, returned her smile, then opened the door and disappeared.

**END OF PART ONE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was late in posting this chapter; I had a very busy few weeks.
> 
> Part Two has a bit of a tonal shift from Part One, enjoy :)


	12. Absolute Pin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absolute pin
> 
> A pin against the king is called absolute since the pinned piece cannot legally move (as moving it would expose the king to check).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game begins.

**PART TWO**

\----

            Behind Damian, Ellen was at the smaller computer hub, a holographic display before her. Although Bruce had said nothing, when the camera turned on and the screen cleared, he’d raised a single eyebrow, glancing behind his son. But Damian did not respond, either unaware or deliberately ignoring his father’s reticence.

            “You’re sure it’s him?” Bruce asked, peering down at his son.

            Damian nodded, leaning back in the seat that his father so often occupied, elbow leaning on the armrest, two fingers thoughtfully pressed against his jaw. “I am,” he replied. “Moss practically gave me everything but a confession.”

            “Do you have that on record?”

            He shook his head. “It would be useless anyway. Elliot is far too tied up in our family secrets.”

            “He was institutionalized. No one would believe him.”

            “Except apparently someone does,” Damian pointed out. “Sophia Moss isn’t a stupid woman. She’s perceptive and intelligent and knows how to back me into corners, which says something admirable at best. Dangerous at worst.”

            “She’s a pawn.”

            His voice sharp, Damian said, “Some people allow themselves to be used, Father. That doesn’t mean they’re unintelligent. You should know that, of all people.”

            Bruce’s eyes almost flickered back to Ellen. Whether she was listening or not, she continued her work without glancing up. Moving on, Bruce asked smoothly, “So he’s the one who’s been stealing our money.”

            “Tim’s money. Yes. Although we’re still not confident where it’s going. Paying off everyone involved, I’m sure.”

            “Don’t bother looking,” said Bruce, shaking his head. “I don’t like monopolizing Oracle’s attention with our personal matters.”

            “I doubt we take up too much of her time. She is a professional, after all.”

            “Money is money. It doesn’t matter. We need our resources in the field, on taking him down.” He paused, then said, “I’m coming back.”

            Damian shifted in his seat, then said, “Please don’t.”

            Bruce blinked out at his son. “Excuse me?”

            “Tommy Elliot,” began Damian, “delights in finding ways to gall you. You’re his personal target-”

            “And when I am not there,” said Bruce, “it’s you.”

            “I don’t think that’s true,” said Damian, shaking his head. “Destroying you remains his ultimate target, but your destruction means nothing if you’re not here to see it, if you don’t notice him.” He paused, looking up at his father. “It’s obsessive,” he added, “and, frankly, far more than a grudge based on hatred, in my opinion, but who knows how wooing works in the mind of a monster? No, I’m sure that your return would make it more dangerous for us here, not less so.”

            Bruce watched him. “I have a team to lead there.”

            “Father, please,” muttered Damian. “We depend on the symbol, not your presence. You know that.”

            There was a silence between them. And then Bruce said: “I have business abroad. Enough that I should be gone for a few more weeks. But if at any moment-”

            “Will you do something for me?” asked Damian, interrupting his father, looking up at him. Bruce hesitated, then bowed his head in a slight nod; it was less of an assurance that he would grant his son’s request and more of a gesture to indicate for Damian to continue. He said, “When you speak to my mother, please remind her that there’s no chance she’ll be invited to the wedding if she doesn’t at least reduce her terrorist activity. Tell her I know she’s behind what’s happening in Ukraine and I think it’s terrible.”

            Bruce didn’t say anything immediately. And then he asked, “Why do you think I’m going to speak with Talia?”

            “Because the League crisis is over, and there is no business abroad that would keep you in one place more than a day that doesn’t involve an ex-lover.”

            “Damian.”

            He shrugged. “I speak from experience.”

            Behind Damian, Bruce thought he saw Ellen smile. “Ukraine,” said Bruce, eyes shifting back to his son on the screen, “is your grandfather’s fault. Your mother is in Thailand.”

            “Ah,” said Damian. “Of course.”

            “Call me if you need help. I’ll be in contact with Tim as well.”

            “Naturally.”

            “Hush is dangerous.”

            “So am I.”

            “Take this work seriously.”

            “I always do.” Bruce paused, and then, with a _click_ , the video disappeared from the screen.

            After another moment, Damian stood up, going to where Ellen was still on the computer hub, staring up at it grimly. “Look at you,” he murmured, the images and reports reflected in his eyes. “You’re a regular Oracle.”

            “I hope not,” she replied, touching a commlink at her ear, presumably muting it. “I don’t like not being in the field.”

            “You do very well, out of it.”

            “It seems like a waste.”

            They both looked up at the holographic map. “You’d be in danger,” he said.

            “I’m used to that,” she countered.

            “I’m wary enough as is, having the rest of your team out there,” he sighed. “If Tommy Elliot is behind this, no doubt he knows everyone’s identities. That’s why he went after Colin in the first place: he knew the connection between him and me. You are his next logical target.”

            “Tommy Elliot,” said Ellen slowly, as if the name tasted bitter in his mouth. “The man who looks just like your father.”

            “Roughly,” said Damian unpleasantly. “He requires the addition of stage makeup to seriously pass, but yes. The resemblance is there, due to years of plastic surgery.”

            “You’re right. Obsessive.”

            “To say the least.”

            “Why do you think I couldn’t take him?”

            Damian didn’t reply right away. After a few moments of silence, Ellen looked away from the display, to look at her fiancé. His eyes were on the holograph before them, but they were far away, seeing something quite beyond her.

            “He used to play chess with me,” said Damian.

            Ellen raised an eyebrow. “I appreciate your injured pride,” she said, “but losing a chess game doesn’t necessarily preclude a loss on the field.”

            “He’s a master strategist,” continued Damian. “Arrogant as all hell, but good. Better than you think.”

            Wordlessly, Ellen watched him. “You sound afraid,” she said. When he did not reply, she reached out and wrapped her arms around his waist, and said, “I’m not used to hearing you afraid, Damian.”

            “I’m not scared of him,” he murmured, returning her touch, looking down into her eyes. “I fear for Colin’s safety, and for your own. Before we launch our offensive, we need to make sure our defense is airtight.”

            Ellen said nothing.

            After another pause, Damian admitted, “The man makes me feel like a child. Like I’m being played.”

            “So you are.”

            Something hard entered his voice. “I don’t _like_ that feeling, Ellen.”

            “Nobody does,” she replied, with a shrug. “But everybody gets it. Welcome to the human condition, Damian. You can’t be in control all the time.”

            Damian looked at her, a grimace on his face. “He’s always six steps ahead of the game, ahead of wherever we are. While I’m wasting time here, he’s planning for all possible contingencies.”

            “Why is this troubling you so much?” asked Ellen, and there was a frown on her face. “If you know he’s planning for contingencies, it means you can imagine all the different possibilities he’s thinking of.” She paused, then said, “So. We counter-plan.”

            “It’s not that-” began Damian, but she looked away, tearing her arms away from his body, unmuting the commlink at her ear.

            “I hear you, Seraph. Go on.” Damian fell silent, watching her. Glancing back at him, Ellen added lowly, “I’m going to head out to the Bunker. Far too removed all the way out here.” Wordlessly, he nodded, and she began to shut down the computer hub before her, occasionally responding to something at her ear.

            Then the phone in Damian’s hand rang; he headed away from Ellen, answering it. “Yes,” he said. “Excellent. Right away.” He hung up, looking up at his fiancée, and then swept out of the Cave, heading away.

\-----

            “Thank you, Mister Wayne. Can I – I don’t suppose we can manage any last-minute haggling?”

            “No,” said Damian firmly, shaking his head. “Twelve million is my final offer. The lowest I will go.”

            The other man nodded enthusiastically, offering his hand. “Of course, absolutely.  We can provide you with a security detail, if you’d like?”

            As he shook the man’s hand, Damian also shook his head. “No,” he said. “This impression of – hiding. It’s not good for my reputation.”

            The man’s smile was broad and wolfish. It made Damian feel slightly ill, to think of the work done with him. But it was a step in the plan, one more notch whittled off. He thanked him, and then headed out of the building, briefcase in hand.

            Someone at the building, he guessed, had tipped off the media. They were there with their cameras and tape recorders and shouting questions, but he ignored them. He had driven himself here, refusing to bring anyone else into the fray. Just as he slipped into his car – which was not surrounded, but there were a few persistent reporters hovering hungrily around it – his phone went off. Wishing he could drive, but prioritizing the two options, he closed his eyes against the salivating press outside of his windows. “Yes.”

            “My question is,” came a woman’s voice, sharper and sweeter than Ellen’s, “is Dick home? Because I don’t see the point of going to your place if I can’t hang out with Dick. And that’s probably the only time in my entire life those words will come out of my mouth.”

            “Lian,” said Damian, “you can stay where you want.”

            “But you invited me into your home.”

            “I did, but I didn’t mean to imply that was your only option.”

            “Damian, please. If I’m going to be a part in your scheming, then I’m going to take you up on the luxury of sleeping in the master bedroom of the Wayne Manor.”

            “You can’t have the master bedroom.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because Ellen and I sleep there.”

            “Oh, Mister Wayne! You aren’t even _married_ yet.”

            “To answer your question, no, Dick isn’t home. He has his own life, you know.”

            “Does he? My dad always gave me the impression Dick’s life revolved around cute kids like you and me.”

            Glancing out his window, Damian said tiredly, “Stay with us. I need you.”

            “You _need_ me? Look at me, I’m all misty-eyed.”

            “We need to get our stories straight.”

            “And hopefully cuddle like the would-be lovers we are.”

            “Please. You’re an adult.”

            “So are you, but you still desperately crave my approval.”

            He sighed loudly. “How dearly have I missed you, Miss Harper.”

            “Isn’t it fun to reminisce about old times?”

            “I’ll alert Tim that you’re coming. Don’t bother with the main gate, I’m sure there are still media vultures lingering-”

            He broke off suddenly, senses instantly sharpening; he had thought he’d heard a name from outside the car, one of the men with cameras shouting something to him. “Of course,” answered Lian. “Oh, Damian, I haven’t been this excited about a boy since that time I almost killed-”

            Damian dropped the phone on the seat beside him and opened the door of the car. The man who’d been closest to the car backed up slightly, clutching something in his hand. Damian only stared at him; his eyes were wide, but not as if in surprise. Like an animal about to strike, the whites shone in a full ring around his eyes, and even as he stared, the other man cringed.

            He held a voice recorder in one hand, and a photograph in his other hand. Behind him, a cameraman hovered, mouth hanging slightly open.

            Quietly, fiercely, Damian asked, “Where did you get that photo?”

            The newshound blinked, eyes darting to the picture in his hand. Just a moment ago, he’d had it pressed against the window of Damian’s car. Damian moved with a slow, dreamlike precision, gaze boring into the man’s, demanding an answer.

            This time, Damian pointed to the picture in the man’s hand. “Where,” he said, voice laced with pulsing poison, “did you get that?”

            The man began to stutter something, and something flashed in Damian’s eyes. His hand shot out and he took hold the picture, crumpling it as his fist closed around it. He did not tear it out of the man’s hand, but stood close before him. Damian’s eyes narrowed.

            He removed the photo from the man’s hand and, his breath steady and calculated, head buzzing with rage, he headed back towards the car.

            And then the man asked, “S-so you admit you – you know that girl? You know Iris West?”

            Something dropped into his stomach like a brick into a pit of vipers, and he whipped around, still clutching the photo in his fist, and before he had time to consider it, there was blood on his knuckles. The man was on the ground. Damian watched him, hands pressed desperately to a bleeding – probably broken – nose, and then he reached down and calmly took the voice recorder. He threw it on the ground and stepped on it, crushing it. He glanced at the cameraman. “Man, come on,” he said, hands shaking, “we’re just doing our-”

            Damian ripped the camera out of the man’s hands, inspecting it. Both men shouted at him, but he ignored them, turning away as the cameraman attempted to retrieve the camera. He took out the memory card, which, as far as he could tell, contained anything they had filmed. Handing the camera back to the man, he tucked the small card in between his middle and index finger, then broke it on two.

            He dropped it on the ground, watching the two men. Around them, a few other reporters gaped at him.

            “If that name,” he said, “makes it on to the news, or tabloids, or anything.” He paused for effect, watching them with dark eyes. Calmly, he finished, “Then I will consider you personally responsible, and I will find you, and tear you apart.”

            His smile was tight and mirthless. He turned around to get into his car, and then someone shouted, “Hey! That’s _expensive_ , you piece of shit-”

            The blow was more like a push, and he hardly felt it, but the edges of thick paper of the photograph in his hand – Damian _knew_ that photo, it was taken back when they were on the Titans together, and it used to hang in the West household, and there was no public record which had access to it – poked against his skin, the profound violation of privacy digging into his patience.

            Blood still stained the reporter’s face, and he could not have known how his hands on Damian were like a finger squeezing a trigger. Damian only wanted to punch the man, a display of dominance to indicate that he was not afraid and he would not be intimidated. But some laser-like fastidiousness kicked in, and Iris’s young face in the photograph burned behind his eyelids. _If Lian were here_ , he thought, oddly objectively, as if to justify his actions, _she would kill him_.

            It wasn’t until uniformed men took hold of his arms that he realized he was still hurting the man. The picture had dropped from his grip, lying on the ground: Iris beamed up at them, one corner of the photo covered in blood. Something cleared in his mind and his stomach clenched. He’d been _beating_ the guy, he’d fallen right into that trap. He could imagine Tommy Elliot watching from some hidden camera, pleased that Damian had played right into his hands.

            The police officers held onto his arms until Damian huffed, “Get your hands off me. Let me go.”

            “Oh my God,” said the cameraman. “Somebody call 911!”

            “He doesn’t need an ambulance,” said Damian derisively. “I didn’t break anything.”

            “Shut up,” said one of the police offers; Damian, taken aback by the brusqueness – although even as he thought this, he remembered the bad position he was in, the pathetic body rolling around like a child on the ground – glanced around. He did not recognize the officers’ faces, which he regretted; it was his own fault, for spending less and less time on his underground work.

            It was strange to him, this sort of odd, removed objectivity with which he viewed the situation. He knew he should not have hurt this man, he knew that he wasn’t helping himself, and he knew he was doing exactly what Elliot wanted. It didn’t matter. Colin was gone – not dead, Damian had to keep reminding himself, dead wouldn’t make sense, wouldn’t follow Elliot’s MO – and now Iris, untrackable, untraceable Iris, was threatened. Because of him.

            “Thugs,” said one of the cops, shaking his head. “I’m tellin ya. You can’t dress up a monkey in a suit and expect it not to dance.”

            “Don’t touch me,” said Damian, pulling his arm away from the officer.

            “Sorry, Mister Wayne,” said the other cop, older, more apologetic. Both were white. “There are all these witnesses, and you _did_ just assault a guy.”

            “Not to mention outstanding charges,” said the younger cop, sounding almost smug. “Drugs, some perverted, fucked-up shit, stealing money from _charity_. You think you can get away with everything because you got a rich daddy.”

            “I can get away with everything,” said Damian loudly, “because I’m innocent.”

            “Really?” asked the cop. “Are you? You just beat the shit out of a guy, dumbass.”

            Ruefully, the older officer began to place Damian under arrest. They were right. After the damage he’d done today, there was no use in resisting.

            The younger cop talked with the guy whose face was bleeding, kept his hand on the gun at his belt. “Bruce Wayne’s dumb enough,” he said, shaking his head, “but paired with that Head bitch? No wonder the kid’s a criminal-”

            He could not have known whether or not this was all part of Tommy Elliot’s plan, but the anger he’d kept contained so well for so long bubbled out of him, and he tore his hands from the older cop and one punch – just one punch, that was all he got in –

            And then he was in the police station, charged with assault, battery, property damage, resisting arrest, and assault on a police office. It was only then that he realized he had never picked up the photograph of Iris.

            Montoya let out a whistle. “Damian,” she said. “Everyone told me you were a smart kid.”

            “Can I have my phone call,” he said tiredly.

            “Sure. Not that I don’t love having you around, but damn, you could do with trying to keep yourself out of trouble, you know.”

            “Thank you, Inspector.”

            “You’re welcome.” She handed him a phone. “Go call your daddy to bail you out. Again.”

            He began to dial a number, then hesitated. “Would it be possible,” he said, “to make two phone calls?”

            Her expression answered his question, and he input a number. A few rings, and then: “Tim Wayne speaking.”

            “Tim,” said Damian. “Excellent. How are you?”

            “Damian? Where are you calling from?”

            “I have some bad news.”

            Cautiously, he asked, “What kind of bad news?”

            “There was an…altercation.”

            Tim’s voice instantly changed, and when he spoke again, it was with that calculated edge of code. “Did you meet Bruce’s friend?”

            “No. No, it wasn’t related to that at all.”

            “Are you OK?”

            “I certainly am. The paparazzo whose face I smashed in may be facing some minor discomfort.”

            There was a silence. Then Tim groaned.

            “So we’re very clear, I highly doubt you could make me feel more stupid than I already do.”

            “That won’t stop me from trying.”

            “Lovely. Come get me?”

            “What, you can’t post bail for yourself?”

            “You know my assets are frozen.”

            “I do. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

            “Dear brother.”

            Tim put on a fake slight accent, mocking Damian. “Mm, yes, quite.”

            Damian imitated Tim’s nasally Gothamite lilt. “Thanks a ton, buddy.”

            “I’m coming from the Manor, don’t say anything until I get there.”

            “Yes. Remind Alfred that-” he paused, glancing at Montoya, “-that my friend is on her way.”

            “Ellen is already-”

            “My other female friend.”

            In a faux incredulous voice, Tim asked, “You know more than one woman?”

            “I know precisely two, excluding my mother.”

            “I’m telling Steph you said that.”

            “Goodbye, Tim.”

            “Yep. I’m on my way.”

            Tim hung up, and Damian reluctantly handed the phone back to Inspector Montoya. “OK,” she said, standing up, motioning for him to do the same. “I’m sorry about this, but you’re gonna have to wait in the cell ‘til your big brother comes and gets you.”

            “Must I?” asked Damian, standing up, smiling almost shyly at her. She only rolled her eyes at him: he hadn’t really expect anything different.

            “Why does it seem like,” she began, “for someone whose family is so preoccupied with justice and the law…that you actively seem to be avoiding it?”

            “Because I’m the black sheep of my family,” he sighed, following her to the barred cell, which she unlocked. “Surely you could show an ounce of empathy for me.”

            “Not my job,” she replied, gesturing inside the cell. He regarded her for a moment, and then obliged. She slid the bars shut behind him, then watched him for a moment. Very slowly, he took the bars in his hands, and stared back out at her.

            Then she said, “I used to know what you kids were like.”

            “Did you.”

            “Rich and snotty. But you were always decent.”

            “Until now.”

            “Seems like it.”

            Damian didn’t say anything. She shook her head and left, and he did not call out to her.

            For a long moment, he didn’t move. He had been stupid and foolish, and there were so many things he could be doing now, other than standing uselessly in a jail; there were so many doors open to Tommy Elliot, to Hush, and Damian had unlocked them and invited him in. He had not felt so helpless in many years.

            With a defeated breath, he moved to the small cot in the corner. Beams of sunlight streamed in between the bars of the small window; there was nothing he could do, and so he closed his eyes, began running through strategies, possibilities, places where Hush might strike.

            It was far sooner than he expected when Inspector Montoya returned. “All right,” she said. “You know, it’d help if you could, in general, try to avoid breaking the law for the foreseeable future.”

            “My dear Inspector Montoya,” he replied, gaze focused on her hands, on the keys, “I will try my very best.”

            “You know who you talk like?” she asked, shaking her head. “You talk like the goddamn butler-”

            There was a loud but muffled _bang_ from the station. Montoya froze. There were another two shots. One hand flickered to the gun at her belt, and Damian instantly said, “Inspector, let me out.”

            “Hold on,” she said.

            “No,” he whispered, eyes glancing behind her. “I’m – if there’s about to be an exchange of gunfire, you’re obligated to evacuate me, not to engage.”

            “Shut up,” she said. Gunfire erupted, loud and dangerous.

            “Let’s go. Unlock the door, and get me out of here.”

            Montoya glanced back at him, then finally took the key, inserting it into the lock. Anxiously, Damian held the bars.

            It all happened quickly: a door swung open, Montoya abandoned the keys she held and three shots went off in quick succession, and Damian shouted, “ _Montoya!_ ”

            She was uninjured, but she stopped shooting immediately, narrowing her eyes. “…Bruce Wayne?” she asked, and Damian shouted, “Dammit, _no!_ ”

            The scars on his father’s face gave everything away, and the man wearing Bruce Wayne’s skin patted his chest affably, indicating the bulletproof vest he wore. “Your coworkers,” he said, addressing Montoya, “already tried that, Renee.”

            He slid a hand out of his pocket and shot something towards the police officer. It did not let out the textbook _bang_ of a gunpowder weapon, but she gasped and clapped a hand to her neck, where she’d been hit. Montoya collapsed, and Damian’s knuckles went white, clutching the bars of the cell, almost trembling in fury.

            Hush replaced the small dart gun into his pocket, and smiled at Damian. “Good morning, son,” he said.

            “What?” asked Damian, voice shaking. “You’re not going to kill her?”

            “Why kill cops?” asked Tommy Elliot, advancing towards the cell. “They’re just doing their job. Besides, she was standing right in front of you. What if I missed, and blew your brains out instead?”

            “You wouldn’t have missed.”

            “I might’ve. Either way, I would’ve ruined your suit. Blood and brain matter don’t go well with that excellent tie. Armani?”

            Hush turned the key, but did not fully unlock the door yet. He glanced up at Damian. Despite himself, Damian found himself just the slightest bit surprised by those eyes; in his memory, Tommy Elliot was nearly a perfect copy of his father, except for the small, almost imperceptible differences which threw the whole image off. But now he saw that those eyes were not at all like the eyes of his own father: they were hungry and animalistic and savage. Damian could not remember being able to recognize this difference, before.

            Leaning on the bars, Damian gently asked, “Are you going to let me out?”

            “Yes,” replied Hush, meeting his gaze. “Are you going to fight me?”

            “Need you even ask?”

            “I’d hoped that perhaps the quality time you spent with me as a child would have softened you to my influence. I am not a terrible man, Damian.”

            “Yes. You are.”

            “No worse than you ever were.” He smiled. “We forgive children, because we pretend they didn’t know what they were doing. But you and I both know, little Damian al Ghul, that little boys know exactly what they do, and they enjoy it just as much as any man.”

            “Shut your mouth.”

            “Your mother misses you,” added Hush inconsequentially. “Every time I wired her the money, she mentioned how she would pay anything to have you back.”

            “Is that what you’re doing?” asked Damian, his voice glass-sharp. “Are you kidnapping me, sending me back to Mother like a naughty child?”

            “No,” replied Hush, with a shrug. “I don’t care how much she can pay me, remember? I’m an Elliot. All I care about is taking apart the Waynes.” When he smiled, it was an expression Damian had never seen on his father’s face. “Your father’s father took away my childhood,” he said, hands on the keys, “so I am taking away his son’s son.”

            “Ambitious,” said Damian, “but I’d like to see you try.”

            Hush’s eyes seemed to glow with anger. “You will see me,” he said, “win. You’re in check, Damian.”

            “But you’re forgetting,” he replied, nodding his head, “you haven’t yet cleared the board.”

            There was a lull, and then the man who looked like Bruce Wayne tore the small gun from his pocket again, shooting at Damian; he dodged the dart and yanked hard on the sliding door of the cell, and it clanged open. Throwing himself towards Hush, there was a moment of struggle, but, strangely, dangerously, the man didn’t seem to be fighting back as much as he should have. Damian scrambled to take a pair of handcuffs from Montoya’s belt, and tried to clamp them around Elliot’s wrists, but the man deflected Damian. He dug for something else at his belt, face devoid of any expression or indication of annoyance: he held a gun up to Damian’s forehead.

            Without hesitation, Damian slammed the gun out of the man’s hands. Then he pummeled his fist into the side of Elliot’s face; for some reason, he grimly noted the pain in his knuckles, and knew that his hands would bruise. He hated bruised hands.

            “ _What,_ ” began Damian, punctuating each word with another blow, “ _do – you – want?_ ”

            Tommy Elliot grinned at him, blood on his teeth. He unclenched a fist, and held it up between them. A white knight rested in his palm.

            Damian stared at it. “I’m waiting,” Hush whispered, voice low, “for you to remember that you don’t care about hitting me.” He paused, watching Damian with those wild eyes. “You care about _them_.”

            For a moment, there was nothing. And then Damian swore, and latched one cuff around Hush’s wrist, the other to a bar of the cell Damian had just been in. Then he ran out, to Montoya’s desk, retrieved his phone and wallet, picked up a phone and dialed 911, tore a key off the belt of another officer, and left. As he headed to the police motorcycle which the key fit, he put the phone up to his ear. It rang, but did not pick up. “ _Dammit_ ,” he swore through clenched teeth, when he only received Tim’s voicemail. “Tim!” he said sharply. “Hush is on you. Be careful. Don’t go into Gotham, I’m heading out to the Manor, be on your guard.” He hung up, got on the motorcycle, and shot through the city, back to the Manor. Maybe, by some unlikely stroke of fate, Tim had not yet left. He remembered the white rook left on his pillow, and the thought occurred to him that Tim was not safe wherever he was.

            Expertly, he navigated the streets of Gotham, crossing Kane Bridge, coming in from the secret entrance to the Cave a quarter mile out, so he wouldn’t have to deal with any crowd around the house. He dropped the bike, sprinting towards the stairs. The Cave was empty, but he called, “Tim!” He made it to the top of the stairs, bounding out into the mansion. “ _Ti_ -!” There was someone there, not his brother and certainly not Alfred, and out of instinct he tackled them to the ground.

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” said the woman, blinking up at Damian, hands open, palms up. A grin flitted at the corners of her face. “Calm down, Damian. You’re _engaged_ , remember?”

            Damian instantly got off of her, standing up. He offered her a hand and she took it, pulling herself to her feet. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “Is Tim here?”

            “No,” replied Lian, shaking her head. “I let myself in.”

            “You-?”

            “Old codes,” she said, with a shrug. “Dick gives them to my dad, so.”

            “Get your uniform,” he said to her, sweeping his gaze around them. “Hush is here and he’s making his move. No time to waste.”

            “Are you sure?” asked Lian cautiously. “Isn’t there an announcement we need to make, first?”

            “No,” said Damian, shaking his head. “Family first.”

            “Am I hearing you right? Did you just call Tim Drake _family?_ ”

            “Lian. Help me.”

            “I’m helping,” she said, nodding. “I’ll get my stuff.” She started down the corridor, heading away; Damian went back down to the Cave, stripping and quickly putting on his own uniform. On the computer, he activated a tracer in Tim’s car, but it said it was still in the garage downstairs: he must have taken a different car. Since Tim wouldn’t have left in uniform, there were no other traces to follow. He swore again, slamming his hands on the computer desk.

            Then, below him, the door to the garage opened and closed. Damian froze, then didn’t move, bringing up a different screen, security footage below him, from the door which he could not see. He stared at the video for a moment, then left the console, heading down a short flight of stairs. “Tim?” he asked, in surprise, seeing the other man heading over towards him.

            “Damian,” replied Tim. “I was already in Gotham when I got your message. Do you know where Hush is? Are we going after him?”

            Damian watched his brother uncertainly. “Yes,” he said. “I…” he cleared his head, then told Tim: “I left Elliot at the precinct where they held me. I doubt he’s still there, but I also get the feeling he’s about to launch an offensive, and I won’t be caught off guard.”

            “OK,” said Tim. “This is your call. Let’s go.”

            From above them, another voice called, “Damian!” Both boys looked up; Lian came down the stairs, holding her wig in hand. When she reached the same platform as them, she looked in between Tim and Damian, blinking. “Aren’t you supposed to be kidnapped, or something?” she asked.

            “Not that I know of,” answered Tim. “How did you get in?”

            “That’s not important,” she said, shaking her head. She thrust one hand towards Damian, holding something in her palm. “This was in my stuff,” she said to him, her voice low and urgent. “I didn’t bring it, and it wasn’t there when I put it down.”

            A white bishop rested there, the engraved half-moon mark staring straight up, as if a grinning, gaping mouth, taunting him. “What does that mean?” asked Tim, looking up at Damian, brow furrowed in confusion and thought.

            Lian watched Damian expectantly; he thought she was waiting for him to explain. “The bishop,” he murmured, “used to be called _alfil_ , in early chess. It’s a Sanskrit-Arab word. Its English derivative is…”

            She looked at him, her bubblegum pink hair contrasting sharply with the clarity of her expression. “Archer,” she said, finishing his sentence.

            Damian’s own words came back to him. _You haven’t yet cleared the board_.

            Colin, the rook. Tim, the knight; Lian, the bishop. His pulse seemed to slow, and he looked around wildly, reaching out, taking the piece in Lian’s hand, but not immediately pulling his own hand away. Carefully, Lian watched him; she closed her fingers around his hand just as he retracted his grip, pulling away, clutching the bishop. “Ellen,” he murmured; he moved back to the console, retrieving his communicator from the belt he had not yet clipped around his waist. “Tim,” he said, glancing back at his brother, “was Ellen here earlier?”

            “No,” replied Tim, shaking his head. “She left this morning, she’s still working with her team, isn’t she?”

            “Ember,” said Damian, speaking into his commlink. “Ember, reply.”

            Nothing. There was an odd clicking, and Damian’s eyes narrowed in concentration: he could not immediately tell if it the sound came from the comm or not.

            And then Lian cocked her head and looked around. “Damian,” she said. “Do you hear-?”

            There was a loud, exploding _BOOM_ , a flash of fire, and then blackness.


	13. Swindle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swindle
> 
> 1\. A ruse by which a player in a losing position tricks his opponent, and thereby achieves a win or draw instead of the expected loss.  
> 2\. It may also refer more generally to achieving a win or draw from a clearly losing position.

            Damian awoke with a pulsing ache in his left temple and a heavy feeling in his hands and around his shoulder blades, blood pooling in his limbs, trickling through veins constricted by tight bindings. Before he opened his eyes, he took stock of his body, checking to see where it hurt and where he seemed unharmed, identifying to what degree he would be able to fight. His arms were held up above his body, wrists bound to a bar of some kind above him. The place, wherever he was, smelled wet and metallic and salty, but that might have been the lingering taste of blood in his mouth. After a few seconds, the pain in his head intensified as someone took hold of his hair and wrenched his face upwards. Softly, a man’s voice said, “Open your eyes, Robin.”

            Damian did so, staring up defiantly at the man whose face was all covered in bandages. He leered back at Damian, holding a gun in his other hand, outstretched, pointed at Tim, who sat unconscious in a stark wooden chair still wearing his business suit. As soon as Damian looked up, the man let him go, stepping away to stand just before Tim. Out of the corner of his eye, Damian saw a short black wig unceremoniously discarded on the concrete floor of wherever they were, and a pulse of alarm shot through him, compelling him to look away from Hush, around him. To his relief he saw a shock of short pink hair not far from him. The pink, Damian noticed for the first time, was fading slightly, into an orangeish-blonde. He could see the black roots of her hair beginning to grow in, and felt the insidious curl of guilt rising within him. It was an absurd guilt, to be wondering if his trial and capture had interrupted her regular beauty routine, but to him it felt like a stark reminder of his neglect. As always, Lian cared far more about him than he did for her.

              She hung bound by the wrists, same as him, but she was shorter than he was and held higher so that only the tips of her toes touched the ground. Although her eyes were closed, she did not seem unconscious. Her arms shook slightly, and Damian could tell that the position was putting too much weight on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Ignoring the man before him, Damian said her name out loud, steadily. “Lian.”

            She opened her eyes. They were dark and stony. “Glad to see you’ve joined us,” she said dryly, and Hush immediately said, “Shut up,” although he didn’t move his gun.

            “All right, Tommy,” said Damian calmly. “You’ve won. You’ve backed us into a corner, and we’ve no clever tricks anymore.” He looked straight at Hush. “Go ahead,” he said, unafraid. “Shoot me.”

            Tommy Elliot stared at Damian, only his eyes visible underneath the gauze. “No,” he said, his voice a purring murmur. “I think I’ll shoot  _him_  first.” He jerked his head towards Tim, and Damian’s eyes followed. He must be drugged; otherwise he would be conscious already. This thought pulsed through Damian’s mind even as he saw blood ooze from a wound along Tim’s forehead, his pale lips stained a dark red. In the low light, head still fuzzy with pain, Damian could detect no movement.

            Damian’s eyes flickered back to Hush. “What do you want?” he asked. “I’m afraid my father is too busy to notice your desperate cry for attention tonight.”

            With a movement under the bandages that may have been an ugly grin, Hush shifted the gun, pushing it into Tim’s forehead. The barrel of the weapon, held in Hush's well-manicured hands, gently swept a lock of hair away from his temple. The movement was almost gentle, almost fond, and deeply perverted. “What do I always want?” he asked. “Penance. Revenge. My fair share.”

            “Were I able to provide you with that,” Damian began, eyes focused on where the tip of cold steel pressed against Tim’s skin, “I would. But I cannot turn back time, and I can no more provide you with a new childhood than I could do for myself.”

            “Rhetoric,” said Tommy. “Your father doesn’t indulge in it. But it suits you.”

            Damian bowed his head graciously. “Thank you. It does you, as well.”

            There was a muffled clanging, the chains around Lian’s wrists struggling against the metal bar above them. “OK,” she said. “Now that we’re done with the whole complimenting each other on talking like a nineteenth-century villain, can we please get around to the ass-kicking, Robin?”

            “I knew I should’ve gagged her,” murmured Hush.

            “We’re quite at the disadvantage here, Arsenal,” replied Damian, raising his voice. “If you could stay quiet a moment.”

            “What are you going to do?” she asked derisively. “Negotiate?”

            “Maybe,” he retorted, and Hush let out a gentle laugh.

            “Quarreling like lovers,” he said. He clicked his tongue. “You’re engaged, you ugly dog.”

            “Yes, well. Evil brings friends together, doesn’t it?”

            “The quote,” corrected Hush, “is, Evil brings  _men_  together.” He looked at Lian, and the expression on his face was filtered by the bandages, but the animalistic look in his eyes had never been clearer, like ice-cold water. “And this…child is no man.”

            “Neither are you,” she spat back at him. “You’re a boy caught in a cyclical psychosis of misdirected blame and a misogynistic complex for stripping women of their own bodily autonomy.”

            “Excellent diagnosis,” he replied mildly. “Your thoughts, Damian?”

            He glanced back at Damian, whose brow was creased in worry, although for whom Hush could not tell. Damian said, “Normally, this is the part where I would agree and add that this all probably stems from a desperate need to relive the moment of perceived triumph when you murdered your sick mother, but in this case I should refrain from doing so, due to the fact you have the barrel of a gun pointed to my brother’s face.”

            “Your brother?” echoed Hush. “And Sophia gave me the impression you two couldn’t stand each other.”

            “Another woman you’ve strung along in your misguided crusade to destroy my father’s family,” said Damian. “Your mother would be so very proud, don’t you think?”

            “Really?” asked Hush; the white of his teeth was visible as he grinned, leaning in towards Damian, as if physically drawn to him. “Damian Wayne, son of Talia al Ghul, is going to challenge me on  _mommy issues?_ ”

            Despite himself, Damian bristled at his. He hoped it did not show.

            “Shoot him,” said Lian suddenly. They both turned to look at her. She stared, hard at Hush. “Two sons in one blow. Shoot them both. That’s as good of a head start as I can think of.”

            There was a short silence. And then, suddenly, Hush lowered his gun. “No,” he said. “That would be far too simple, and not at all satisfying enough.”

           Right after the swell of paternalistic fury at Lian for provoking him like that, playing with fire, Damian realized she was right. Their only option was to goad Hush into revealing his intentions. Once they understand why he hadn't yet killed them all, what his endgame was, then they might have a chance of getting the upper hand. Damian did not glance at Lian, but felt a sudden wave of gratitude that it was her with him, in this dangerous situation. “What do you want from me?” asked Damian, baring his teeth aggressively. “You’ve already dragged my name through the mud. Is death too kind?”

            “That’s exactly what it is,” replied Hush. “Particularly when your father isn’t here to hold your cooling corpse. No, Damian, I am not yet done with you.”

            “And my brother?” he asked. “Am I to be the stand-in for my father, to watch him die by your hand?”

            “No,” said Tommy Elliot. “Not if you follow my instruction.”

            The air around them seemed to condense somehow, becoming tighter and icier. “Instruction,” repeated Damian lamely. “What do you want. Money?”

            “What use have I for money?” he asked them. “I am still an Elliot, a name as old as the Waynes, with more prestige than your line could hope to usurp.”

            “That’s Tommy for you,” sighed Damian, glancing over at Lian. “Always so ambitious.”

            Hush struck Damian across the face, hard; bone ground against bone in Damian’s jaw, not quite dislocated, but almost. The sound of the slap echoed slightly in the mostly empty room. Damian flexed his jaw, making sure it still worked properly, and then looked up at again.

            His face was close to Damian’s, eyes boring into the younger man’s gaze. “Hush, Damian,” he whispered. “Hush.”

            There was a silence between them; Damian stared, hard, back at him. And then the man continued, “You are a shadow of your father. Of the men who have come before you. It shames me to have to exact revenge on a child as insolent and useless as you.” For a moment, he stared at Damian, and then he turned away. “They should rule who are able to rule best, Damian,” he said matter-of-factly. “And that is not you, boy.”

            “All of this is going to waste,” said Damian loudly, as Hush replaced the gun at his belt and picked something up off of the ground. “You are just one man, Tommy. I have my family, our resources, the entire Justice League if I needed them-”

            “Assuming,” interrupted Tommy, tugging on what he had taken from the floor: a chain, attached to Lian’s wrists, “you could communicate with them.” Forcefully, he dragged her towards Damian; as she was much shorter than he was, she had to dance along the floor on her tiptoes, unsteadily struggling to maintain her balance, lifting her body up by the shoulders strength to catch her breath. “Assuming,” he continued, “they would listen to your plea, instead of arresting you on the spot.” When Lian was directly beside Damian, he stopped and pulled hard on the chain, tightening its grip on her wrists. She made no sound, but even in the dim light he could see the purple-red color of her fingers and hands, bound tightly, most of her body weight resting on the crux of her wrists. “You have committed so many crimes of late,” he said. “And you want to know the beauty of it, Robin?”

            “No,” replied Damian and Lian simultaneously. She didn’t look at him, but hiked herself up by the wrists again, struggling to hide her shallow, laborious breaths. He felt a rush of affection and kinship for the woman.

            That ugly grin was back again, gaping through the bandages. “You’re guilty,” he said, in the same way that someone else might say,  _I love you_.

            Stonily, Damian said, “I don’t steal money from charity, Tommy-”

            “Oh, but, my dear boy,” Hush replied. “You do.”

            Damian stared at him, eyes narrowed.

            “It is,” he began, “exactly what you think it is. Exactly what they think it is. Damian, you stupid boy, even when the evidence is all laid out for you, you still refuse to say it.”

            Lian gasped, “Can you – get to the  _point_ , please?”

            When Hush hit her, it was with none of the pleasure he’d gleaned from Damian’s slap; it was harsh and with the intent to injure, and Damian couldn’t help himself from shouting out against the violence. Lian glared at Hush, and then spat saliva and blood out at his face. Red spray covered his bandages, staining them with a thousand small scarlet needlepoints. He did not wipe it away, but grinned at her. “Sweet,” he said, reaching out and taking her chin; she jerked her head away, then chomped down hard, trying to catch his fingers between her teeth but he tore his fingers away quickly, out of reach. “Ah,” he murmured. “Behave yourself, girlie.” He paused, then added, “Or not. I’ll kill you either way.” He shrugged. She bared her teeth at him in hatred.

            “The point,” said Damian, “Hush.”

            “Monetary transfers to your Gibraltar account,” he said instantly, in reply, glancing over to Damian. “Via your mother, dear kind Talia al Ghul, the woman who’s been my sponsor for well over a decade. Ask yourself, Damian. What would I need with that money? What do I  _need_ , Damian?” He paused, and then he smiled. Damian only stared at him. “Your name, of course,” he remarked. “Torn to pieces. And so it will be discovered that the money from the Neon Knights Foundation was funneled out through a supervillainess middleman, into her son’s personal account. Into  _your_  personal account.”

            “Hardly scandal,” said Damian, his voice rough. “I’ll give the money back tenfold. We’ll erase any evidence. You’ll have to do better than that, Tommy.”

            “I don’t,” said Hush. “You already did. How about the money for the street-rat, the orphan, the deranged, sick child? Venom is not meant to last, Damian. Didn’t you know it would kill him, eventually?”

            “He’s not dead,” said Damian definitively, and Lian glanced over at him: she did not know who he meant. “You’re using him. Dosing him up again, no doubt.”

            “Or maybe I’m not,” murmured Hush, still holding the chains binding Lian’s wrists in his hands. “Maybe this was the inevitable result. I so look forward to seeing you kill him, after all that money you threw away trying to make him better, after all that genuine concern wasted. Don’t you know that Waynes can’t love, Damian? Your father should have taught you that by now.”

            “Shut up.”

            “I was delighted to hear you’d fucked him,” said Hush casually, inspecting the chains in his hands. “Colin, that is, although I wouldn’t put it past your father, not with your family history.” Hush grinned at Damian, who said nothing, jaw clenched tightly. “Adds an extra layer of something into the whole allegory. Certainly Bruce and I never engaged in such sordid activities. My mother would’ve hardly approved.” His grin was wicked and dripping with poison. “Well, she might have. She did love your father so much. It’s your mother, I think, who would be disappointed to hear about this. She never cared for trash.”

            “Where is he?” asked Damian lowly.                      

            Hush looked up at him blankly. “Who?”

            “Colin.”

            “Oh,” said Hush, nodding, rolling the chains in his hands. “He’s out right now, trying to kill your fiancée’s team. No doubt one of them will get close enough for him to crush. So little finesse, but what can you do?” Before Damian could continue, Hush continued, “And then of course, the little video. Not enough to prosecute you, especially not if you date it, but…enough to destroy your credibility.”

            “Desperation,” said Damian. “You reek of it, Tommy.”

            “Maybe,” replied Hush, shrugging. “I’m not going to kill you, Damian. I’m going to make it so you can’t put this behind you. You can’t take back an evil thing, my would-be son, no matter how hard you try to erase it with dear sweet, safe, Ellen Nayar. Your reputation is your lifeblood, and I am going to puncture your still-beating heart.” He watched Damian, looking satisfied. Taking one hand away from the chains, Hush trailed a gloved finger around his bandaged mouth, smearing the spray of blood Lian had spat at him. “She’s an ugly bitch, the little rat,” he said simply, thoughtfully. “It’s the scar, I think. I never understood why people with faces like that never invited the touch of an artist’s knife.”

            “By all means,” said Damian, “keep insulting my wife-to-be. It gives me an excellent excuse to break every bone in your body, when the time comes.”

            Hush’s hand dipped into a pocket, and he retrieved some small device. “And by all means, keep talking,” he said quietly. “It’ll be a good way to keep you from witnessing that devastating moment when the light fades from her eyes.”

            Damian stared at Hush for a moment, body tense: he assumed the man still talked about Ellen. And then his eyes focused on the device in Tommy Elliot’s hand, which was a camera, and Damian realized its lens was not pointed at him. Instantly he turned his head, looking around to where Lian hung by the wrists, the tips of her toes just barely brushing the ground. Her breaths were shallower now, hinging on the moments when she could lift herself up to inhale, the pressure on her lungs heavy and unforgiving. Suffocation, via your own body weight - how people used to die from crucifixion.

             Eyes hard and determined, Damian looked back at Hush. “Let her go,” he said.

            “No,” replied the man. He tugged on the chain again, and Lian’s body swung into Damian’s. The force of the movement caused Lian to lose her balance, and he heard the breath escape her lungs, could practically hear her ribs sliding out of place. “But,” said Hush, moving forward; he unhooked one of Damian’s wrists from the bar above them, “I will let  _you_  go. Partway, anyway.”

            Instantly, Damian’s hand went down to his waist, searching for a belt, but Tommy just grinned. “Ah-ah-ah,” he murmured, holding up his index finger like the swinging pendulum of a grandfather clock. “Belt’s stripped anyway,” he said, nodding towards where Damian’s concealed weapons were discarded, by Lian’s wig. “Now, you can certainly use that free hand to try to punch me if I get too close, or something else just as useless, although admittedly amusing. Or,” he glanced towards Lian, “you could help her breathe.”

            Damian stared at him, and then turned; he could face Lian now: she was on his left and it was his left wrist Hush had freed. There was some kind of light leaking out of her eyes, like a film forming over them, as she slid closer and closer to unconsciousness. Without considering it a moment longer, Damian slipped his arm around her waist and lifted up, supporting her weight just enough that she could breathe. “Damian,” she began, but he shook his head. It was not a cold gesture, and it did not just mean  _shut up_. She knew him well enough to understand what he didn’t say.  _I’m not letting you go._

            “You have been,” said Hush, and he held up the camera, “strange and perverted all along. All it takes is some well-taken photographs, and then not only is your double-life exposed – fucking in a  _Robin_  uniform, how divinely depraved – but everyone will see what a farce you’ve been, how you haven’t been reformed, how boys with lives like yours can’t  _be_  reformed-”

            “This is petty,” said Damian, still holding Lian, “even for you.”

            “Kiss her,” said Hush.

            “Fuck you,” said Lian.

            “No,” said Hush patiently, nodding at Damian. “Him.”

            There was a bright flash, and Damian imagined their faces on the camera, glaring up defiantly at the man. “Nobody will believe this,” breathed Lian. “Nobody who knows us-”

            “I don’t think,” said Hush, taking a step back, “Damian here fears the judgment of those who  _know_  you.” He held out the gun and pressed it, once again, to Tim’s forehead. He repeated: “Kiss her.”

            Lian looked at Damian. He met her gaze, and then, very slowly, he lowered his face to her neck.

            “Yes,” purred Hush. The camera went off again, and again. “Perfect.”

            Damian’s lips tickled against Lian’s ear. Her eyes were closed, but his breath was hot. She nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly.

            “Damian, move just so,” said Hush, gesturing with the barrel of the gun. “They shouldn’t be able to see your other hand. Just that hers are bound.”

            “Are you getting off on this, Tommy?” asked Damian, but he sounded more tired than anything. “No one’s even nude yet.”

            “I wish I had brought your mask with us," remarked Hush, sounding deeply, viscerally satisfied. "It would have been so effective, to strip of you all but that.”

            “You first.”

            “Her first.”

            “I’m going to kill you,” said Lian mildly.

            “Please,” said Hush, and he took another photograph. “Try.” He instructed, “Take off her clothes, Damian.”

            “No,” replied Damian.

            “Do as I say, or I shoot your brother.”

            “Didn’t Sophia already tell you I have no love for him?”

            This bothered Hush, Damian could tell. “Take off her clothes,” he said again, and, again, Damian replied, “No.”

            “You want it so bad,” said Lian, to Hush. “Come take care of me yourself.”

            For a moment, Tommy Elliot did not move. And then, swiftly, he moved forward, tucking the gun into his belt again, reaching out with those gross, gloved fingers to tear at her armored clothing-

            In a split second, Damian let go of Lian, and she pulled her body up in a painful pull-up, weight bearing down on her wrists, springing her legs up and launching her feet heel-first into Hush’s face.

            He reeled backwards with the force of the blow, stumbling and losing his balance; he fell onto Tim, on the wooden seat, and in one smooth, precise movement, the chair split and the ropes fell uselessly and Tim was already across the room, untangling the chains from Lian’s wrists to free her hands. Angrily, Tim said, “You could’ve given me a second’s notice.”

            Damian rolled his eyes. “As if code words aren’t  _completely_  obvious to someone like Tommy Elliot-”

            “Are you arguing?” hissed Lian, slapping Tim’s hands away from her own pulverized fingers. “ _Now?_ ”

            Behind them, Hush started to laugh. Tim turned his attention to Damian’s other wrist, but the handcuffs which attached him to the steel bar were tight and industrial-grade. Cautiously, Lian stood protectively before the two men, searching for any advantage the room might give her. Hush’s laugh ended in a long sigh, and he got to his feet, looking back at them. He held his gun in one hand.

            He seemed to look straight through Damian. “Killing you would be so profoundly boring, Damian,” he said. “Don’t make me do it.”

            “We have you outnumbered,” said Lian, even as Tim still could not free Damian’s other hand. “And you only have so many rounds in that gun. I’d say one more bullet, from how you’re handling its weight. You can’t win. You have to know that. You have to know how  _pathetic_ -”

            There was a  _bang_  as the gun went off, and when Damian shouted Tim's name his voice cracked, and Lian turned around, mouth hanging open in shock. The body between them crumpled to the ground as Hush disappeared.  Breathlessly, Lian frantically reached out to try to break the bond around Damian’s wrist. “I’ll go after Hush,” she said. “You just – stay here with your brother-”

            “No,” said Damian, and she had not heard the panic and distress in his voice like this for many years. “No, dammit, forget about Hush – Tim – make sure he’s-”

            Lian dropped to Tim’s side; blood pumped out from the point-blank wound to the heart, and she said, “He’s got a pulse, which means he’s losing blood but also that his heart is still functioning-”

            “ _Dammit_ ,” swore Damian, helplessly hanging from one wrist.

            Tim’s eyes fluttered open. He began to speak, but blood slicked the corner of his lips and he could only produce a slight gurgling sound.

            “Sucking chest wound,” murmured Lian, leaning forward, pressing her whole weight onto where the bullet had struck; bones cracked beneath her. “Commlink?”

            “Hush took them all,” said Damian. “Tim, can you hear me?”

            More gurgling sounds. “Don’t talk,” snapped Lian, glancing at Tim’s eyes. “I can’t take my hands off him long enough to drag him outside,” she said, breathing quickly, “or figure out a way to get you out of those cuffs.”

            “Medical supplies?”

            “I don’t carry an OR with me!”

            He swore again, eyes locked on Tim’s face, pale and glistening with sweat. “Go,” said Damian.

            Lian looked up at him, eyes wide. “And leave you?” she asked. “And leave  _him?_ ”

            “Find somebody, get help,” he said. “Tommy Elliot is not going to trap all  _three_  of us here.”

            Lian didn’t move for a second. She glanced down at Tim, and when she looked back up at Damian there was that characteristic sheen of steel in her eyes. Then she pulled away from Tim and darted out of the place, the wide, dark warehouse - on the docks, assuming by the smell - her hands covered in blood.

            For one moment, Damian did not move, and then he lifted his free hand to his bound wrist, clenched his jaw, and with one swift movement, dislocated his wrist joint. Still, there was not enough room to quite slip out. He slipped off his glove with his teeth, then bit, hard, through the skin of his unbound hand. His lifted his free palm, bleeding now, up to let the blood flow down across the tight metal, wetting the space where the cuff held his wrist. The blood slicked his skin, loosening the friction, turned dark from the dirt rubbing off the cuffs.

            With tremendous effort, Damian yanked his hand out of the cuff, letting out a primal scream of pain as he did so.

            And then he immediately dropped to the ground. “Tim,” he said loudly. “Tim, tell me you can hear me. Say something. Move. Can you hear me?” Vaguely, Tim opened his mouth and whispered something. “What?” asked Damian, alarmed.

            Coughing – blood splattered from his mouth – Tim managed to murmur: “You know…you make… an OK Robin…”

            “No,” said Damian, without missing a beat, leaning his body weight onto Tim’s wound, trying to stem the bleeding. “No eleventh-hour confessions tonight, business as usual. Since when has anyone in this family let a bullet point-blank to the chest stop them? If Jason can come back from the dead, you can wait twenty minutes for the paramedics.

            It looked like Tim tried to laugh in response to that, and then he reached up and weakly took hold of Damian’s wrist, the one that was not torn to pieces. “You have to,” he gasped, “go.” Urgently, he looked up at Damian’s face, and said, “No mask. If they…find you…”

            “More important things at the moment,” replied Damian. “Keep talking.”

            He let out another painful cough, propelling blood from his wound with force. Then it seemed like he actually did laugh, a wheezing, arduous thing. “You said – family…”

            “Well,” replied Damian, without glancing at Tim’s face, “every family needs the odd one out. It’s one of us, either you or me, I haven’t decided yet.”

            Tim wheezed: “Or Jay.”

            They all but laughed together, and Damian said, “Probably Jay, you’re right.”

            Tim didn’t reply to this.  There was a few moments of silence, except for the odd squelching and ragged breath from the man bleeding out.

            “Tim,” said Damian, glancing up at his face. His eyes were shut, expression blank. “ _Tim_ ,” he said with more urgency, pressing down hard on the man’s chest. “Stay awake. Come on. Look at me. Timothy.”

            When Tim said nothing, Damian looked helplessly up and around them. And then, in defeat, he buckled over slightly, closing his eyes, the pain still throbbing in his wrist.

            “Come on, Lian,” he said out loud, to no one. “Come  _on_ , Lian.”

            The concrete beneath Damian’s knees was slick and warm, Tim’s blood flowing in regular but weakening pulses. There was a rush of something strange, like movement behind Damian. Falling silent, he glanced around, body tense. Nothing.

            Slowly, he turned back around.

            Tim was unconscious below him. The bleeding had lessened, and for a second that calmed Damian. And then he realized that there was no regular rhythm to the loss of blood, no pumping through a punctured, chambered heart. He grew very cold.

            There was silence.

 


	14. Exposed King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposed king
> 
> A king lacking pawns to shield it from enemy attack.

            Damian leaned back against the table, tightening the binds around his broken wrist. There was a silence in the cave, apart from the constant low hum of machine and the distant dripping of water. Lian watched him, arms folded, eyes focused on his hands. “You have a plan for this?” she asked, and her voice was practically emotionless.

            “No,” replied Damian coolly. “But we’ll make one.”

            “It’s not as if we have a whole lot of time.”

            Without looking at her – it seemed so unlike him, to not look up, to keep his eyes from flashing angrily – he simply said, “Tommy Elliot won’t release those photographs until the perfect moment. Now would be far too…uncomplex.”

            “Isn’t that exactly why he would do it?” Lian asked. “He can get us while we’re down.”

            Damian shook his head. He had to tighten the brace one strap at a time. After another moment, Lian moved forward, taking his wrist in her hands, cleanly and tightly clasping the brace together. They stood there for a moment, eyes fixed on his hand.

            “He doesn’t want to hurt my family,” said Damian. “He wants to destroy us.”

            He paused, and then he swept past Lian, towards the computer.

            “But,” he began, “that isn’t to say there’s no use in acting quickly.” As he typed something into the computer, she watched him, unsurprised. “Oracle,” he said, as a face appeared on the screen.

            “This is a bad idea,” she said, before he could speak.

            “That’s what _I_ said,” offered Lian, leaning in to the frame.

            “I don’t mean in some parental you’ll-regret-this sort of way,” said Barbara seriously, watching Damian. “I mean this is a game-changing move. I mean that this goes far beyond the both of you.”

            “We’re responsible for ourselves,” he replied. “Schedule the conference.”

            “Damian.”

            “Through Tim’s accounts.” He paused, then added, “Get Tam Fox to do it. That’ll look more authentic.”

            “You’re putting people in _danger_ -”

            “I’m saving my family,” replied Damian sharply, looking up at Barbara.

            She watched him for a moment, then said: “You’re saving yourself. And it’s selfish. And it’s something I would’ve expected from you ten years ago, not today.”  
            For a very long moment, Damian stared at the screen, his eyes hard and burning. Babs didn’t look away. His voice quieter, he asked, “Do I need to ask Tam directly?”

            “I could stop you,” she replied, “if I wanted to.”

            “I want to stop _Hush_ ,” he said sharply. “Stop working against me-”

            “Stop making this all about _you_ -”

            “I don’t have time for this,” said Damian, straightening up, clasping his fingers around the brace at his wrist. “I have one agent missing, another down, and – I haven’t even _seen_ Ellen-”

            He trailed off. Although he wasn’t shaking, he seemed thrumming, buzzing somehow, eyes wide and aware, and waiting. Lian didn’t approach him. But then Babs touched something on her end, and said: “Ember’s in the Haven, with Seraph.”

            This hurt Damian, and Lian could see. “Thank you,” he said curtly. “I’ll call Tam.”

            “You don’t have to,” she said. “This is a stupid move, but I’ll do it for you. And be cleaning up the fall out, I expect.”  
            The screen went blank. Damian watched the screen for a moment, and then he shed his tunic, going back to the other table, slipping on a collared shirt. Glancing up at Lian, he murmured, “Do something about that hair.”

            “No,” replied Lian.

            “It’s not very professional.”

            “Neither is what we’re about to do.” She watched him, leaning back, arms crossed around her chest. “Damian.” He didn’t look around. “Hey. Damian.”

            Finally, he glanced around. She caught his gaze, and held it. After another moment, he let out a frustrated sigh, and turned away again, buttoning up his shirt. Lowly, he continued, “You’re going to be standing right next to me. If we’re presenting a united front-”

            Lian let out a bark of derisive laughter. “You sound like your father.”

            “If you’re trying to upset me,” he said, impatiently, “it’s working.”

            Then he turned around, picking up his jacket from the table, and glancing her up and down.

            “I wish you wouldn’t wear that skirt,” he said, miserably. “Let’s go.”

            “OK,” she replied, following him down to the cars. “I wish you weren’t such a misogynistic prick.”

            He sighed loudly, but kept moving. A ringing sound filled the Cave, and Lian turned around; a call was coming in on the screen. Lian hesitated, glancing down at Damian. He didn’t stop or look around. “Leave it,” he called, and she did so. When they slipped into the car, and they headed out, Damian murmured, “Alfred will speak to him. I don’t have time to hear his disapproval right now.”  
            “Oracle probably told him what you’re planning,” said Lian, watching him carefully.

            “If he wants to stop me, he’ll figure out a way,” replied Damian, and then he said nothing more, lips pressed tightly shut.

            Tim was in a private ward at Gotham Mercy hospital. They both wore dark sunglasses, slipping into the hospital like would-be celebrities. The press was already gathering, and that made Damian’s stomach turn, although he gave no indication of such. When they finally got into the room where Tim lay, fresh out of the OR, Damian locked the door behind them, and Lian picked up his chart, flipping the pages.

            She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Is this right?” she asked Damian, holding it out to him.

            Damian took it, looking at the papers. After another moment, he frowned down at it, flipping the page as well. “No,” he began, cautiously. “No, I’m sure the bullet punctured his heart-”

            “Yeah, but,” came a weak voice from the bed, “I’m pretty much OK.”

            Instantly, Damian held the clipboard out again, and Lian took it from him. He went to the side of Tim’s bed, taking his wrist, feeling his pulse. “That’s impossible,” said Damian.

            “They didn’t even operate,” replied Tim, his voice hoarse. “The bleeding stopped before you left.”

            “No,” said Damian, shaking his head. “I had my entire bodyweight pressed down on you to keep you from bleeding out, there’s no way-”

            “I’m glad you’re OK, Tim,” said Lian, sidling up to his bedside.

            “Thanks,” he said, looking at her; they didn’t know each other well, but it was hard not to feel responsible for someone after what they’d seen each other through. “How are you?”

            “Fine,” she said, nodding across the bed. “Damian’s the one with the broken wrist.”

            “Fractured,” he corrected, grimacing.

            “And ten stitches.”

            “Hey,” said Tim, good-naturedly. “Better than being shot in the chest.”

            Damian nodded vaguely to that, clearly distracted. Then he asked, “Do you mind if I see the wound?”

            Tim shook his head, then tugged down his hospital gown, revealing the stitches in his chest. Lian let out a low whistle. Gently, Damian reached out, touching the skin around the wound. “That’s…” he murmured, but Lian spoke up before he could continue.

            “Not right,” she said, shaking her head.  “My dad got five shots in the heart and his chest was a ragged mess.”

            “Well,” said Tim reasonably, glancing at her, “five is a lot different than one.”

            “You saw that firearm, though,” Lian continued steadily, looking up at Damian. Glancing back down at the body on the bed, she added, “No pressure, Tim, but…you should be dead.”

            Damian stared up at Lian. And then he said: “Unless.”

            Looking between the two of them, Tim repeated, “Unless?”

            After another thoughtful moment, Damian looked down at Tim, shaking his head. “How do you feel?” he asked.

            Rubbing a hand across his sutures, Tim replied, “Actually…fine, really. Chest feels bruised.”

            “Well,” said Lian pointedly, “you did get _shot_.”

            “No, I mean, like…” he trailed off slightly, then said, “Kind of like defibrillator burn. My heart didn’t stop, did it?

            Lian reached over to grab the clipboard at the end of his bed, and flipped through it. “Doesn’t say so,” she said.

            Voice quiet, Damian echoed: “Defibrillator?”

            “Yeah,” said Tim, looking up at him. “Kind of, yeah.” There was a silence. And then Tim asked, “Is Tam here?”

            “Not yet,” replied Damian. “We’ll start as soon as she’s here.”

            “Where’s Ellen?” asked Tim.

            Damian didn’t say anything.

            Lian looked to Tim and asked, “Are you coming out with us?”

            “I can’t,” he replied, picking up that Damian wasn’t about to answer his question. “Doctors say I’m not allowed out of bed for at least another day.”

            “So, naturally,” said Damian, “you’ll be back with us tonight?”

            “If all goes according to plan,” said Tim, “then yes.” Damian watched him, but his eyes seemed to be far away. “But then again,” he added, “when have you ever known these things to go according to plan, in our family?”

            Lian almost grinned, holding her hands up in surrender. “Hey,” she said. “I’m not your family. Don’t lump me in with the rest of you nerds.”

            “You need to talk to Dick,” continued Tim, looking at Damian. “And Bruce, I guess, but wait until afterwards. And make sure Jay’s here, somewhere, just in case things go downhill.”

            “What?” asked Lian. “You think Tommy Elliot’s going to take us out with a sniper rifle as we’re holding a press conference?”

            “Not if Jason takes him out first,” Tim said. “Just make sure he knows.”

            “I’m sure he already does,” replied Damian, distractedly. “Tam will bring him.”

            The comm at Damian’s belt buzzed, and he opened it, glancing at the texts. “She’s here,” he said. “Time to get started.”

            Tim reached out, grabbed Damian’s braced wrist. “Hey,” he said.

            Damian watched Tim’s fingers around the brace.

            “Be careful,” he said. “This doesn’t end anything. Not where it matters.”

            Gently, Damian tore his wrist away from Tim. “No,” he agreed, “but this will make it much easier to focus on what _does_ matter.” Without glancing up at Lian, Damian fished a small console out of his briefcase, turned it on and handed it to him. “Live feed,” said Damian, tapping something, a scene spilling onto the screen before him. “You can type in here,” he added, pointing to the side of the screen. “If you want me to say something, let me know.”

            “Since when do you care what I want?” murmured Tim, holding the screen before him.

            “Since you got shot in the heart for me,” replied Damian, and he placed a hand on his shoulder for one moment, then removed it. “That means something, Tim.”

            “Oh, please,” muttered Tim, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get all misty, I’d take a bullet for anyone.”

            Damian watched him for a moment, and Lian watched Damian, acutely aware of the dullness in his eyes, of what that meant: _I wish_ , pulsed behind his gaze, _I could say that for you_.

            They left the room, heading out to the press conference organized outside of the hospital, ostensibly about Tim’s injuries, updating on his condition. But Tam Fox had let it leak that Damian Wayne had an announcement to make, and there wasn’t a newshound in the city willing to let a headline about the younger Wayne’s misadventures pass by.

            As they headed out, Lian close to him, she murmured: “You’d’ve taken that bullet for him, Damian.”

            “I didn’t,” he said, voice stony.

            “None of us thought he was going to shoot,” she said. “It was a stupid move on every logistical level.”

            “Clearly it wasn’t,” replied Damian sharply. “He cornered us with a single bullet. We’re supposed to be far better than that.”

            “If anything, it was Tim’s fault for not-”

            Damian stopped, turning to face her, a grimace locked in his jaw. “ _His_ fault,” he whispered, under his breath in the open, bright hallway of the hospital. “Lian, please. We’re not sixteen years old anymore, we have no time for displacing the blame. I’m taking responsibility for all of this, because _somebody_ has to, and-”

            “And _what?_ ” she demanded, not whispering; Damian glanced around self-consciously as she continued. “You’re in trouble, Damian, admit it! You need help. You need your fiancée’s team finding your best friend, and you need yourself exonerated in the eyes of the law because we are _not_ turning you into a fugitive. So that’s what we’re doing. _We’re_ doing. We. The both of us. I was your teammate once, and, back then, at least, I was your _friend_. Get it through your thick skull that this is not on _you_ , this is on all of us.”

            He watched her.

            Then he turned around and headed out of the hospital. Not glancing back at her, he muttered, “I always worked better on my own anyway.”

            Tam met Damian at the podium, greeting him shortly and with worried eyes. When she asked about what he was planning to say, he just shook her head. Lian didn’t like it, didn’t like the way he insisted on treating everyone around him at arm’s length, but she tolerated it because she knew she couldn’t get up to that microphone and speak, and somebody had to.

            He went to the podium. Lian stood behind him on his right, Tam on his left. He placed his tablet before him, glancing down at it as if they were notes; instead, they showed the location of Ellen Nayar and Tim Drake, and a separate side window where Tim could communicate to him

            Lian glanced down and saw the first words pop up in the window. _OK?_ Another moment. _You look good. You can do this_.

            She saw him roll his eyes, and then he leaned forward, placing a hand on the microphone, tapping it gently. Before him, the throng of media-makers fell relatively silent, mirroring his movement, leaning forward.

            “Thank you,” he said, tiredly, “for coming out to support my brother in this time of crisis. Fortunately he is in a stable, conscious condition at the moment, and we do not expect any further complications. His injuries were due to a violent assault which occurred this morning.”

            Damian looked down at the tablet again. Lian didn’t look over at him.

            “This attack,” he continued, looking up, “was carried out by a man known as Thomas Elliot, also called Hush. He was placed in Arkham Asylum about a decade ago, his arrest and incarceration facilitated by the Batman. Since then, he has somehow been discharged, and presumably been consolidating his resources in preparation for a direct, personal attack…on me.”

            This already piqued the interest of the crowd, wide eyes and all but salivating mouths waiting for more.

            Scanning through the crowd, he continued, “The accusations which have been hurled against me - are not completely true, although I will be the first to admit that they are based in fact. I laundered no money from my brother’s Neon Knights Foundation. Thomas Elliot did, using a combination of Wayne family passcodes which he illegally procured, and years of facial reconstruction through cosmetic surgery, in order to pass as my father, who is currently caught up in important business ventures. In his absence, myself and my older brother Tim are standing in as head of Wayne Enterprises.”

            He moved his head slightly, turning to Lian but not looking at her. “With this said,” he continued, “I feel that not only is it within my power, but is also the most wise course of action, to set some things straight.”

            He paused, then turned out to the crowd, and announced, “This is Lian Harper, also known as the Batman Incorporated agent Arsenal. For the past four years, she’s been working throughout the world to track down some of the world’s most renowned criminals, including the super-terrorist Jade Nguyen, known as Cheshire, who, yes, is Lian’s mother. I would ask all of you to remember, however, that parentage does not define one’s legacy. Like Lian, I too come from conflicting backgrounds. One of my grandfathers was the greatest benefactor this city has ever known; the other, one of the most infamous killers and terrorists in the world.”

            Something appeared in the small box where Tim could type. Damian stopped long enough to read it, and then looked back up.

            “I realize this might be too much to ask, for some of you,” he said, “but I beg you to allow me ten minutes in which you forget this. I am not Bruce Wayne or Talia al Ghul’s son; I am Damian Wayne, acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Batman, Incorporated, and, seeing as my brother is out of commission, the Neon Knights Foundation, as well.”

            He paused. Lian watched him.

            “I am also,” he began, carefully, “an active agent of Batman, Inc.”

            Behind him, Tam let out a very small gasp, which echoed throughout the crowd.

            “Lian’s funding has come directly through me, because her mission is under my jurisdiction,” he continued. “Details of each mission she undertook, and the successful targets apprehended, will be released to the public shortly. Due to the nature of our work, some names have been altered or redacted.

            “As for the three million dollars leached from the Neon Knights budget. This money went through Thomas Elliot into an account which is set up in my name. This is true. As attorney Sophia Moss – Sophia Moss, who was, I would like to add, paid off by Thomas Elliot, an accomplice in his various crimes – discovered, this account belongs to my mother, to whom I am estranged. I would hope that my unfaltering presence in Gotham for the past decade has proven that to you all. However, it is true that the money is still at my discretion, and I have already transferred back the missing money in full, with an additional twelve million dollars funneled into the company via an independent transaction concerning the rights to the security footage from the Pearl Collar, used as evidence in my trial. This is all being released publicly on the web as I speak.”

            The wave of murmur in the crowd strained, ready to erupt, eyes lighting up in vicious glee at the headlines they were already imagining.

            “On behalf of my brother Timothy Wayne,” Damian continued, “I would like to officially announce the merging of Batman, Incorporated with the Neon Knights Foundation. Every place there is a Neon Knights headquarters, there will be a Batman, Inc. headquarters as well. Batman went corporate a long time ago, my friends. Today we are only reshaping the structure of the Batman, from a dark knight, a symbol in the nighttime – to the cornerstone of a community. Beginning with the Neon Knights Community Centers here in Gotham, we’ll be opening new initiatives for a more integrated approach to community-based empowerment.” He paused. “Yes,” he said, without looking down at the tablet before him, although Lian could see that Tim had said something else. “Batman,” said Damian, scanning the crowd, “is going public.”

            After another short pause – finally, Damian looked down at the tablet before him, as if checking his notes – he continued. “My friend, Colin Wilkes,” he said, “has been drugged and kidnapped by Thomas Elliot. His description and last known whereabouts are also being released. I did in fact pay money to secure Colin a place in a pharmaceutical drug trial, and for this I am more than willing to pay the consequences. But at the moment it’s more important to find him, and bring him home safely.”

            He took a deep, long, silent breath. On impulse, Lian stepped forward, and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. He glanced back at her, and she nodded, knowing the look in his eye was not gratitude. When she stepped back, he spoke again.

            “Thank you for your time,” he said. “I ask that you allow my family some privacy for the immediate future. I, as well as the people closest to me, have important business to attend to, before we can return back to our normal daily lives. I have very little time left for questions, please be succinct.”

            A burst of sound all at once, everyone shouting, vying to be heard. Damian took this in stride, peering out at all of them, and then Damian pointed to someone in the front.

            “Is it true that your fiancée left you?” he asked.

            “No,” replied Damian. “Please do not spread rumors about my wife-to-be.”

            “Then why isn’t she here?” he countered.

            “Ellen is looking for our friend Colin,” said Damian smoothly. “She sends her warmest regards, and wishes she could be present for this important occasion.”

            The din erupted again, and Damian responded with grace, pointing to someone else. “Is it true,” they began, “that you and Lian Harper have a history?”

            “Yes,” responded Damian. “I’ve known Lian for years.”

            At this unsatisfactory answer, Lian leaned forward, elbowing Damian out of the way. “But if you’re implying any kind of romantic or sexual involvement,” she added, “then no. Absolutely not.”

            She began to pull again, but then reconsidered it, and leaned back in; Damian almost pushed her back, but she ignored him.

            “I’m gay as fuck,” she said, in explanation.

            The crowd erupted, and Damian did push her away then, giving her an ugly, angry look. In response, she only smiled coyly at him.

            Tam leaned over. “Damian,” she muttered. “Maybe you should be done-?”

            He pointed to somebody else, not wanting to end the press conference on that note.

            “Are you,” asked the next reporter, wide-eyed and eager, like a hyena, or a shark in the water, “Batman?”

            There was an instant of silence, a hush billowing across the crowd. To this, Damian responded with a well-rehearsed, cryptic smile. “No,” he answered. “Flattering, but no. I am not.”

            “Follow-up,” they said. “Are you Robin?”

            Damian leaned in to the microphone. “There will be no further questions,” he said, and he turned and the podium, Lian on his heels.

            When they entered Tim’s hospital room again, he raised his hands, and began to clap. “Excellent,” he said. “Terrifying, but also, excellent.”

            “We need to act immediately,” said Damian, without sitting down, opening his commlink, punching something in. “Lian, what do you have?”

            “Oracle is on it,” she replied, at her own commlink. “I think we’ve got a solid paper trail connecting Hush and Sophia Moss, at least.”

            Tim glanced in between them, then asked, “Any idea when he escaped from Arkham?”

            “No clue,” responded Lian, looking up at him. “But, really, that’s more your guys’ division.”

            “I don’t know why my father wasn’t monitoring that,” murmured Damian. “In any case, we don’t have any time to waste. What we’ve done here is robbed Tommy Elliot of any momentum, now that we’ve given context for the photos he may have, and-”

            “And practically _outed_ Robin?” asked Tim, raising an eyebrow.

            Damian’s lip twitched with slight distaste as he returned Tim’s gaze. “Yes,” he said. “That was the leverage he had against us, Tim, and we just stole it out from under him. My reputation may not be entirely saved-”

            “Not when your sex tape is going to be showing up on Redtube, anyway,” murmured Lian.

            “-but it’s salvaged,” he finished, shooting a glare towards her. “No more damage can be done, at this point, I hope.”

            “As if it’s that easy,” said Lian smartly, collapsing in the seat by Tim’s bed. He didn’t look at her, eyes fixed on Damian. Behind her, medical equipment hummed and beeped. “There were probably three people in that audience who _actually_ believed any of that.”

            Still peering down at his commlink, Damian replied mildly, “We don’t need all of them to believe it, we just need them to know. If Tommy tries to pose as my father, somebody will at least question his authenticity. That’s all we need.”

            Tim didn’t say anything, lying in bed, shaking his head slightly and staring at his younger brother. Damian looked up, saw him, and stared back.

            “What?” Damian asked, annoyed.

            Without immediately responding, Tim looked away, running a hand through his hair. “A game of chess,” he said, “needs two players, Damian. I think you’re right, but I also worry that you’re playing into his hands.”

            “This isn’t chess,” said Damian. “This is real life.” He paused, then started again: “I’m leaving you with a personal security detail. Alfred will get you back home as soon as possible, and then we’ll need you wherever we need you. Are we clear?”

            “Yes,” said Tim. “One question, though.”

            “What?”

            “Who died and made you boss?”

            Ignoring this retort, Damian said, “Lian, we’ll regroup at the Haven. It might be in our best interest to wait for nightfall.”

            “Weak,” said Tim, shaking his head. “When _I_ was Robin-”

            “You’re _not_ Robin, though,” said Damian, voice cold, “are you?”

            “No,” replied Tim instantly, without a blink. “You are. And now everybody knows it. This was a long time coming, but you know how this is going to play out, in the end. Everyone knows that you’re Robin, so everyone’s gonna eventually put it together that I _used_ to be Robin, and then it all goes downhill from there.”

            They met each other’s’ gazes, still and almost blank.

            With a shrug, Lian said, “Hey, everybody’s known my secret identity for a while now. At least you guys got a say in how that all turned out.” When this did not alleviate the tension, she continued, “ _And_ I got publicly outed today, for real. Kind of a high, hope that makes the news. My dad’ll be proud.”

            Tim didn’t break his gaze. “You have to call Dick,” he said.

            It was Damian who looked away, back at his commlink. “And my father, probably,” he added, sounding unhappy.

            “ _Our_ father.”

            Damian didn’t glance up. “You should do that,” he said. “Jason should be safe, at least.”

            “Sad thing when ‘legally dead’ is the safest thing you can be in this family.”

            “Hey,” said Lian pointedly, looking at Tim, “don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

            “Cassandra?” asked Damian.

            “She’s not around much,” replied Tim, with a shrug, “but she could be implicated. I don’t know how long it’ll take for them to start looking into Ellen – or Steph, even – but Babs will take care of all that, Bruce too when he gets home. Time for you to go.”

            Damian nodded. He went to Tim’s bedside, and reached out, firmly taking Tim’s hand. “I’ll take care of this,” he said. “I’m sorry it had to happen this way.”

            “No, you’re not,” said Tim, but he didn’t seem cheerless. “You were always going to be the one who ruined us, Damian.”

            This stung Damian, but Lian wasn’t sure that Tim could tell. He nodded, and then let go of his brother’s hand; then Lian opened the door for him, and they headed out of the hospital together, back to their car, onto the streets of Gotham, unhurt.

            The Haven wasn’t far, but neither of them said much during the first few minutes of the ride.

            And then Damian said, lowly, “One of them had Iris’s picture.”

            Lian didn’t look at him, eyes fixed out the windshield. “Them?”

            “Someone with a camera. I took their footage. And caused them grievous bodily injury.”

            With a small, fond chuckle, she said, “That’s my boy.” After another beat, she asked, “How’d they get it?”

            “Hush, I’m sure. I still don’t know how he managed to find out about her, though. We were never public with our relationship.”

            “Neither were she and I.”

            Peering out at the street before him, Damian echoed: “Were?”

            Lian shook her head. “Not the time for this conversation, sweet boy.”

            “Are you saying-”

            “This is _not_ the time,” repeated Lian. “Drive us home to your fiancée, you piece of trash.”

            When they arrived at the Haven, Damian got them in with a few passcodes, voice, facial, and retinal recognition. “Niloufar’s upped the security measures,” he murmured, holding his eye up to a tiny camera, scanning him. “Good.”

            As she waited for all the security to go through, Lian watched Damian dutifully go through the motions. She asked, “Do you trust her?”

            “I trust them,” Damian replied. “Hard not to, when Wonder Woman herself descends from the sky and tells you what true warriors they are.”

            Lian’s face broke out in a grin. “No. Really?”

            “Jordan Joyce,” murmured Damian, without glancing at her, “Jabberwock, I mean – is something else. Truly, genuinely, unbelievably something else.” The facial scan went through, and he added, “Part goddess. Literally.”

            “Careful, Mister Wayne,” she said, impressed, and grinning just the smallest bit. “You’re engaged, remember?”

            Finally, the doors to the underground base opened with a slight _hiss_ , and Damian strode inside. Niloufar turned in her seat, before the wide computer display. “Robin,” she said. “Or – am I allowed to call you Damian, now?”

            “You knew,” he muttered, glancing at her, then looking up at her screen. “Don’t pretend this is news.”

            “I knew, but wasn’t allowed to _say_ ,” she said, gleefully. “This is like meeting a _celebrity_.”

            “You’ve met Batman,” he said doubtfully. “Damian Wayne pales in comparison.”

            “My little sister would disagree,” countered Niloufar. “She has _such_ the crush on you.”

            “Niloufar,” he said, voice very deliberately controlled, turning to face her. “I will sign anything you want for your younger sister – I will come to her _birthday_ party – if you will help me right now, without the attitude.”

            She raised an eyebrow at Damian, gaping slightly, and then gave a very small, duly sarcastic nod. “We’re stretched thin already,” she said, opening up a series of reports on the computer screen. “We have our resources devoted to finding Colin, at this point. We barely have enough left over to patrol our own neighborhoods at night.”

            “Stop it,” said Damian, leaning in. “Tell the team to stop all of it. No patrol tonight, no more search for Colin.”

            “Right,” replied Niloufar distrustfully. “You can be the one to tell that to Lucas.”

            “Be ready,” said Damian. “We’re going on the offensive.”

            She watched him, and then she glanced behind him, to where Lian still stood. “Hi,” said Lian, with a killer smile. “I’m Lian.”

            “I know,” she said. She looked at Damian, and said, voice no lower at all: “She is _not_ part of our team.”

            “No,” he replied, without looking back at Lian. “She’s part of mine.” He headed away from the computer panels. “Where’s Ellen?” he asked.

            “Not here,” replied Niloufar. “I can’t believe she wasn’t at the press conference. They’ll be talking about that.”

            Damian watched Niloufar, even as she went back to the screen, communicating with her team. “What do you mean she’s not here?” he asked.

            She turned around to look at him, the look on her face obvious. “I mean,” she said, “Ellen isn’t here right now. If she’s smart she’s miles away from here right now, finally realizing what a mistake it was to agree to marry you.”

            “I have _no_ time for this right now,” said Damian, shaking his head, holding a small smart phone. “Ellen has a subdermal tracer which places her _right_ here-”

            Instantly, Niloufar’s eyebrows shot up. “What tracer?” she asked suspiciously. “We don’t have any subdermal tracers on file for-”

            “Damian,” said Lian.

            He turned around. Lian was kneeling on the floor. She picked something off the ground, and then straightened up, and held it out to him. A wave of exhaustion and horror waved over him, as he anticipated a regal white queen, the final chess piece which Tommy Elliot had been keeping from him.

            Lian revealed to him a tiny implant, blood clinging to it, sitting on her palm. Very slowly, face numb, he plucked it from her hand, staring at it.

            “What is that?” asked Niloufar, sharply.

            Damian stared down at the small thing, heart sinking deep into his stomach.

            “A queen,” he mumbled.

            Lian watched him. “Not quite,” she said, quietly.

            “It’s a game, to him,” said Damian, words coming out on his breath, tasting sour and hot. “And he knows,” he continued, “I’m in check.”

            “It’s time to go, Damian,” said Lian, voice low. “Don’t make this just about you and him. This is Ellen, your fiancée, a _real_ woman. She’s not a chess piece.”

            “It doesn’t need to be, anyway,” said Niloufar, voice hard, but Damian could tell she was keeping back a shaking fear for Ellen. Her gaze rested in Damian, then slowly slid over to Lian. “You brought your own Queen to the game, Robin.”

            Damian looked up at Lian, and it had been a very long time since she had seen him so afraid.

            She reached out, and touched his hand. “Time to go, Damian,” she repeated, and the fear in his eyes congealed, and hardened, and turned into molten steel.

            “Niloufar,” said Damian, his voice empty and flat.

            She watched him, not open, but ready.

            “Gather the team,” he said. “This ends tonight.”


	15. Sans Voir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans voir  
> from French
> 
> 1\. A form of chess in which one or both players are not allowed to see the board.  
> 2\. Also known as blindfold chess.

            “Shh, Miss Nayar,” came a voice in the darkness, low, and angry, and pulsing.

            She did not open her eyes, lying on a hard surface, teeth clenched. Heavy leather straps were tightened across her body, so tightly it nearly hurt.

            “ _To perceive_ ,” he whispered, and she could practically feel him above her, hear the rustle of the surgical bandages, wrapped around his bleeding face, “… _is to suffer_.”

            When she opened her eyes, he was above her, leering down at her face. A necklace hung around his thick neck, a perfect jade circle attached to a chain. Defiantly, she looked him straight in the eyes.

            “Thomas Elliot,” she said. “An honor to finally meet you.”

            He placed one finger on her lips, and said, “Hush. Hush, little rat.” He tapped on her lips, and then pulled away. “ _Liars, when they speak the truth_ ,” he said, turning around, “ _are not to be believed_.”

            “Where are we?” she asked, watching his back.

            “Didn’t you just hear me?” he replied, glancing back at her. “Liars can’t be trusted, so I will not bore you with the inevitable lie.”

            The darkness around them was tinted a very heavy, intense…green? Ellen squinted, blinking, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Something was off about this place, not quite right, but she could not yet place it.

            “How did you find me?” she asked. “How did you know where the Haven was, or about the tracer in my neck? How do you know _any_ of this?”

            Hush let out a very loud sigh, annoyed, and then he turned around to face her. Without unwrapping the bandages around his face, he leaned down towards her face, tucking the jade ring into his collar so it no longer hung down. “Have you,” he murmured, reaching out, placing the tip of his finger on the right corner of her scar, “seen my face, Miss Nayar?”

            “I’ve heard you want to look like Bruce Wayne,” she said, “if that’s what you mean. I’ve also heard that you haven’t _really_ managed it, underneath all that gauze and all those stitches.”

            “Gauze and stitches,” he said softly, tracing his finger down her scar. “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

            Immediately, he lifted his hand away from her, letting out a noise of distaste.

            “Dirty,” he muttered. “Dirty rats. You suit each other, you know. I don’t know how it happened – Bruce lost it a long time ago, but his is a bloodline worth having, and Talia, well, she’s a specimen, to say the least – but their son is a mutt. Trash. He doesn’t deserve that legacy, and he certainly doesn’t deserve any of the respect this city so tenuously allows him.” Hush smiled slightly, proud. “Perhaps now, at least, Gotham will realize this.”

            “He had a plan,” said Ellen simply. “You’ve known the Waynes this long, and you still haven’t realized that they _always_ have a plan?”

            “The Waynes certainly do, the Waynes always win,” he replied, nodding, returning to the small table beside her – she turned her head, and she could see an array of sharp surgical tools, glinting with the little light leaking into the prison. “Which is why I became one, little rat.”

            He grinned at her, teeth shining white in the darkness.

            “Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

            “Not until I finish talking,” he replied mildly.

            “That’s all right,” she said. “I would prefer it if you killed me first, to be honest.”

            Instantly, his hand shot out, grasping her chin, tilting her head, staring at her with narrowed eyes. Gently, he said: “ _Wit is well-bred insolence_ , little rat.”

            She tore her face out of his grip. “Not well-bred,” she said. “Just regular insolence.”

            Hush turned back to the collection of surgical instruments, and then he continued, ignoring her words. “You have seen my face before,” he said, picking up a thin scalpel. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, as if scolding her. “You trust each other far too much,” he said. “One doesn’t need a perfect face to fool cameras, as I prove time and time again. What’s to stop me from waltzing into Wayne Manor, pitter-pattering down those little steps into that oversized clubhouse of a cave, and looking up every secret in that glorious computer of his?” He turned to her, and smiled. “What do I know that you don’t, you ugly little rat?” he asked, voice soft. “How many deep, dark secrets have you learned about your precious groom-to-be in the past few months?” he asked her. “About his past, about his vices, about the _other_ girl. How much more, do you think, I could tell you about him?”

            “You’re a liar,” she said. “You want us all to think you’re so much bigger than you are.” He held the scalpel up in the air, inspecting it, her dark eyes focused on him. “You’ve got Damian eating out of your hand, terrified of a few chess pieces.” There she paused, watching him, with that content little smile on his face. “But you’re forgetting something.”

            “Ah,” said Hush, smiling at her, like a snake. “What’s that?”

            Without moving her gaze, she stared up at him.

            She said, unflinchingly: “The queen is the most powerful piece on the board.”

            Across Gotham, Nell leaned in towards Niloufar, banging a hand on the table. “I still say our best bet is to get _Colin_ ,” she insisted. “He can smash his way through anything-”

            “What?” asked Jordan, eyebrows raised. “And I can’t?”

            “There's no use arguing about this,” said Niloufar decisively. “Ellen is in trouble, and we don’t have time to waste.”

            Lucas didn’t say anything, staring down at the ground wordlessly. Seeing him, Nell reached over, took his arm, and said: “Where do we go first?”

            After a moment, Niloufar looked around. Damian stood with Lian, commlinks in hand. He didn’t look up. Seeing Niloufar's glance, Lian turned and strode towards the four of them, and she said, “We’ve got a sweep through Gotham, searching for Tommy Elliot. As soon as something shows up, that’s where we’ll go.”

            “So in the meantime?” asked Jordan, eyes heavy, watching her. “We just spread ourselves across the city?”

            “We need to stay together,” said Niloufar.

            “Yes, you do,” replied Lian sharply. “But since you're not together at the moment, your priority is finding Ember again.”

            Niloufar looked at her intensely for one moment; Lian’s eyes narrowed, as if sensing something, and then Jordan reached out and caught Niloufar’s shoulder. “Hey,” she said. “Seraph.”

            She snapped around, glancing back at Jordan. Before she could open her mouth to speak again, their communicators all went off at once, and Damian immediately responded to a message on a commlink.

            “What was that?” asked Nell, looking up. “What just happened?”

            “Neon Knights HQ on Robinson,” said Damian, striding towards them, holding the link to his ear. “Someone just sent in a bomb threat.”

            “Is it real?” asked Niloufar. “Could be a ploy to get us away from Ellen.”

            “And Colin,” added Lucas.

            “Doesn’t matter,” replied Lian, shaking her head. “You have to respond to it anyway. It’s a community center, right? It’s gonna be packed full of kids at this time of day, after school. You have to go.”

            “I’ll go,” said Jordan immediately, stepping up. “I can get there fastest. I’ll let you know if I need backup.”

            “I’m going too,” said Nell. “That’s my neighborhood. I’ve been to that place a thousand times, joke or not, I’m not gonna let anyone blow it up.”

            Damian didn’t look up at them, but Jordan and Nell left, leaving he and Lian with Niloufar, with Lucas, who was still mostly silent. “I can organize from here,” said Niloufar. “I doubt Jordan will need backup. You can do what you need to do, but if you’re not one hundred percent focused on getting Ellen back then you have to know, you're not a part of-”

            “ _Seraph_ ,” interrupted Damian sharply, something flashing in his eyes.

            Niloufar said no more. “Lucas, go with them,” she said. “As of right now, this has turned into a rescue mission.”

            She went to her seat before the computer, and Damian strode up to her. “I’ll patch you into Oracle’s network,” he said, typing something, but she batted his hands away.

            “Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been online with Oracle for the past _year_ , Robin.”

            “Niloufar,” said Lucas.

            They both turned around.

            He looked up at her. “This has,” he said, voice not strong, but not quite weak, “ _always_ been a rescue mission. Remember?”

            “Damian,” said Lian, jerking her head away, indicating that they needed to leave.

            Glancing in between Niloufar and Lucas, he nodded at her, and then stepped away from the computer. Niloufar turned to address Lucas. “You saw what Colin did,” she said. “You saw it first-hand. If he’s lost, he’s lost, Lucas. You have to be ready to admit that.”

            “You know what I’ve done,” Lucas countered. “You know what Robin’s done. Why do you give up on people so easily?”

            “I don’t give up on _people_ ,” replied Niloufar, lip curled in distaste. “But that _thing_ out there, crushing people? That’s not a person, Lucas. That’s a monster.”

            “We’re saving him,” said Lucas, his voice hard.

            “Unless we can’t,” countered Niloufar.

            “We’re _saving_ him,” insisted Lucas, but Niloufar couldn’t reply, interrupted by a call on the screen, which she answered.

            “OK,” said Jordan, the camera in her mask picking up the scene. “We’re gonna need some backup.”

            Thirty-something kids, at least a classroom’s worth, were tied up inside the Neon Knights center, bombs strapped to their chest. Niloufar swore, and Lucas was already gone, heading out to join Nell and Jordan. “Who’s the triggerman?” she demanded. “It can’t be Thomas Elliot, can it? He’s hiding, somewhere with Ellen-”

            “Elliot’s not working alone,” said Lian, standing beside Damian.

            Confused, Damian glanced at Lian; and then he did a double take, something registering in his mind. “Really?” he asked doubtfully. “She’s an attorney-”

            “Sophia Moss?” asked Lian, meeting his gaze. “Are you kidding, Damian? You didn’t think I stayed in Gotham just for _you_ , did you?”

            He gaped at her.

            “She’s not an attorney,” said Lian. “She’s a hired killer. A good one, a smart one, but Hush didn’t pay her to ruin your credibility.” She paused, watching him. “He paid her to kill someone.”

            “Robin,” said Niloufar. “Unless you know _exactly_ where to go, we need you helping with the kids. All hands on deck right now. Ellen’s smart. She’ll stay alive until one of us can save her, at the very least.”

            Damian stood, looking lost, for a long moment. And then Lian grabbed his hand. “You can get changed in the car,” she said, and she tugged him away.

            They both did, setting the car on autopilot, racing through the city streets. “How did you know?” he asked, almost incredulously. “Tim and I – _Oracle_ – ran background checks on her, and we didn’t find anything.”

            “Wouldn’t expect you to,” she said smartly, hiking armored leggings up under her skirt. “You haven’t really been in the midst of the League since you were a kid. Organizations evolve, you know.”

            Tugging his boots on, he stopped, and looked up at her. She smiled almost bitterly, and shrugged.

            He echoed: “The League.”

            “Not the Justice one,” she replied. “The other one.”

            “What do you know,” he began, “about the League of Assassins?”

            She pulled her leggings up, and discarded her skirt, clipping a belt around her waist. “I know that three years ago, after I sent my mother to prison, I was approached by a member of the League,” she replied. “Iris was not. She doesn’t know about this. But I went for three years with no contact with you outside of the occasional request for _money_ , Damian, where did you _think_ I was getting my assignments?”

            “No,” said Damian, in shock. “You – that was _my funding_ , Lian, I never intended for you to – you couldn’t just-” He seemed to be bursting with what he wanted to say to her, with fury and disbelief, desperate to be told a lie. “How _dare_ you,” he spat, finally. “How dare you work for my _mother_ , after everything I’ve done for-”

            “Sophia Moss is an assassin,” Lian told him plainly. “I didn’t know the name, but I recognized her when I went to your trial.”

            “And you didn’t think this was important information that I should know?”

            “I didn’t,” said Lian. She watched Damian for a moment, and then she climbed back into the front seat, turning off autopilot. Damian finished tying his boots, slipped on his gloves – as best he could, over his braced wrist – and then joined her in the front.

            “Why?” he asked her.

            Jaw clenched, fingers tight around the steering wheel, she did not look at him.

            Then, finally, she began: “Iris and I weren’t public, when we were together. But…” she hesitated, without looking at him. And then she told him: “Talia knew.”

            “ _When_ you were-”

            “I ended it,” said Lian. “I ended it a while ago. We were still best friends, and we were partners. We worked well together. Better, even, when we weren’t dating each other.”

            Damian watched her. “Is that why she left?”

            “No,” said Lian. “Something happened to her. I saw it shift, the moment before she disappeared. It wasn’t random, Damian, something happened to her.”

            “And you think it has something to do with the League of Assassins?”

            Damian stared at her.

            “Your mother knew about Irey and I,” she said, shaking her head. “The League knew somehow about me and her, and nobody ever said it, but the way I saw it was - as long as I kept her out of it, they would too. But when she disappeared, Damian, something happened to her. It wasn’t random, there had to have been something – some trigger…” she trailed off, and then continued, “First she disappears, then immediately after, this thing exploded with you – I thought there might be a connection. Then Miss Sophia Moss showed up and…” she trailed off. Then she shook her head. “I didn’t have any other leads.”

            Damian considered this, as they drove through the city streets. “Sophia Moss,” he said. “What do they call her? Professionally.”

            A police barricade. Immediately Lian exited off the road, turning into an alley, and they both got out of the car. “Arete,” responded Lian, voice grim.

            “Arete.” Damian repeated the moniker, tasting it in his mouth. “No wonder Hush chose her.”

            “He’s a man of very few, unimaginative tastes,” replied Lian. “Come on. The sooner we take care of these kids, the sooner we can get back to work.”

            “This _is_ work.”

            “You know we prioritize, Robin,” she replied, taking a firearm out of her belt, checking the magazine. “And we both know you’d rather be looking for Ember, right now.”

            He clenched his teeth, mask blotting out the expression in his eyes. “Maybe,” he said, just above a murmur. “But you’re not supposed to say it out loud, Arsenal.”

            Damian directed the police to clear the building; Renee Montoya glared at him, nostrils flaring. “We have a bomb squad coming in,” she hissed at him, staring into the lenses of his mask with such ferocity he’d never seen directed at him before, from her. “We have _professionals_ -”

            “Detective, with all due respect to your own experts,” said Damian, and he hoped he sounded more long-suffering than impatient; “we have _Arsenal_. She knows what she’s doing.”

            As he began to head away, one finger at the commlink at his ear – Inspector Montoya reached out, and grasped his arm. Taken aback at the touch, he glanced around, looking at her fingers splayed out on the armored fabric, and then at the hard look in her eyes.

            “Robin,” she said. “You should know that a part of me says I should just cuff you, right now.”

            He met her gaze for a moment. And then, bluntly, he said: “You’ve tried that before, Inspector, and it ended badly for both of us.” He shook his arm out of her grip and said, “Now we don’t have time for this. Arsenal’s already in there, but she thinks the triggerman is Sophia Moss.”

            “Sophia Moss?” echoed Montoya doubtfully. “The attorney?”

            “Believe me, Inspector Montoya,” he said tiredly, “that’s what I said. Now, please. We both have work to do, and neither of us can do it without the other’s cooperation. Don’t make this harder on yourself.”

            “You’re full of shit,” she said. “But go save those kids, superhero.”

            She let him go, and he didn’t hesitate, following Lian into the building. “Jabberwock,” he said into his commlink, “what do you have? Anything on Moss?”

            “I’m looking,” she replied, high in the air above them, scanning the area. “If you could shut up for ten seconds, I could start listening, see if I can find her that way. I don’t have x-ray vision, you know-”

            He stopped in the front hall of the building, where thirty terrified middle schoolers sat, bombs strapped to their chests. Spoiler was talking to the kids, calming them down as best she could. “Hey – _hey_ ,” she called, holding on to a little girl tightly. “Deep breaths, it’ll be OK-” the girl started to cry, and, without hesitation, Spoiler reached up and tore the mask from her own face. “It’s OK,” said Nell – some of the kids recognized her, from programs she was still a part of at the community center.

            “Jabberwock,” said Damian again, and Jordan replied, “Shut the _fuck_ up, Robin,” and then there was a burst of static on her end, and, furious and incredulous, Damian demanded, “Seraph! Did she just-?”

            “Yes,” replied Niloufar. “She got rid of the commlink, but it’s fine, I’m still connected to her. I’ll relay what she’s saying.”

            Damian took pause at this, despite the tense situation. “ _How_ are you still connected, Seraph?”

            “Robin,” said Lian. The oldest girl in the group – in high school, maybe fifteen years old – sat on her knees, leaning against the wall, as Lian worked with nimble fingers at the bomb strapped on to her. The girl did not cry, but her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, as if holding back tears. Damian knelt beside her and Lian. “Dead man’s switch,” she said to him, pointing at a knot of wires. “This is beyond expert. Disabling it is going to take a lot more than a cursory examination.”

            “All right,” said Damian. “What do you need?”

            “More time, mostly,” replied Lian, looking at him. The expression on her face told him that she couldn’t say it out loud, not when the girl was sitting there, struggling to hold herself so tightly together. But for not the first time that day, he felt chills crawl down his spine as Damian heard what she did not say out loud: _And a miracle._

He looked back at the bomb. And then he reached out and put his hand on the girl’s shoulder.

            “What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was firm and in control, but not yielding enough to be thought gentle.

            Terrified, the girl opened her eyes, just enough to look at him. “Carrie,” she said, voice shaking.

            “Carrie,” he said, still holding on to her. “Where do you live, Carrie?”

            “I-” she tried to swallow her fear, and Damian allowed her the moment. “Down on thirty-second…”

            “Past Kane?” She nodded. He continued, “That’s Red Hood’s territory. Do you know him?” Her gaze started to slip down to where Lian was working through the wires on the bomb attached to her body, but Damian shook her arm slightly, keeping her focused on him. “Have you met Red Hood, Carrie?”

            “I – I’ve seen him-”

            “I’m sure you like him,” said Damian. “You shouldn’t, he’s a complete dick.”

            “True,” added Lian, glancing up at the girl.

            Nodding at the rest of the group, Damian asked, “Are you in charge here?”

            “Yes,” she breathed. “I was – I was making – popsicle picture frames, with them-”

            “Excellent,” replied Damian. “Make one for me. Leave it with Red Hood, he’ll get it to me.”

            She gazed at him, tears collecting in his eyes. “Am I gonna d-?”

            “No,” said Damian. “You’re in charge here, Carrie. Don’t say that in front of the kids. You’ve done unbelievably well this far, just keep it together a little longer. For them. We’ll get you home safely. I promise you.”

            Lian let out a small gasp.

            Carrie’s eyed went wide in terror and she began to look down, but Damian held onto her. “Look at me,” he instructed, as Lian took hold of the bomb, her fingers moving quickly. “Carrie. I need you to do something that might scare you very much. But things are going to be all right. Do you understand?”

            She stared to cry, but nodded through her tears, holding back muffled, strangled sobs. “What,” she managed to whisper, “…what do I need to do?”

            Damian reached out and took hold of both her shoulders with his hands. And then, staring straight at her through his mask, he said: “Close your eyes.”

            Panicked, Lian drew away from the bomb and began to say, “Robin-!” but then Damian just said, gaze flicking upwards, “ _Jabberwock!_ ”

            It happened so quickly, neither Lian nor Damian saw it clearly; a crash coming right through the ceiling, and then the girl with ginger hair was gone, disappeared from before him – the other kids began to scream and cry. Nell was no longer there, unable to hold them, calm then down.

            Outside of the building, the police and the crowd gathered watched Jabberwock shoot straight upwards into the sky, holding a teenage girl in her arms. As she disappeared into the fading light of the approaching night, a tight, eerie hush fell over the crowd, watching a speck, gone, in the sky.

            And then, in total silence, there was a flash of bright yellow and orange, and a cloud of smoke as the bomb detonated high above them. No one said anything, lips numb and fingers cold.

            Then a body reappeared, tumbling wildly in the air, eyes tightly closed, no scream erupting from her mouth. The seconds moved slow as days, and her figure grew larger and larger, hurtling towards the earth. Everything seemed to break at once, and someone screamed, and then there was chaos. But all eyes were still focused on the girl, dropping from the sky like rain, and they could do nothing but watch, helpless.

            The girl fell to city-level, passing the roofs of buildings around them, and then suddenly something leapt out from a roof and plucked her, as if weightless, out from the air.

            A hush hit the crowd, and then Spoiler hit the ground, releasing her line, almost collapsing with the weight of the girl clinging tightly to her.

            Police officers and EMTs rushed forward, taking Carrie from Spoiler – Nell, whose hood was up, but who no longer wore her mask. She fell to the ground, taking down her hood, exhausted. In the crowd, some cheered; some wept.

            Someone offered her a hand. When she glanced up, Renee Montoya looked down at her, a little smile on her lips.  The detective helped her to her feet, and then reached out and pulled up her hood, hiding her face. “Missing something?” asked Montoya, tapping her own face.

            Gratefully, Nell looked up at her. “Well,” she said, with a shrug. “Seemed like everyone else was doing it.”

            In the building, Niloufar spoke on the line to Damian – he was using his portable commlink, so Lian could hear. “The bomb exploded as soon as Jabberwock removed it,” she explained. “She had to drop the girl, and keep holding the bomb.”

            “Did Jabberwock fall?”

            “I’m picking up a crater twenty feet deep in Robinson Park, where the blast propelled her towards,” answered Seraph. “So, in a word, yes. Let her recover – give her fifteen minutes, she’ll be back as soon as she starts healing – but until then, she’s out of commission, and we’re one more teammate short.”

            “Two,” said Lian, meeting Damian’s gaze. When he did not immediately reply, she leaned in and said, “Where is Lux? He might be able to fry the circuits on these things.”

            She jerked her head to the group of children, and, slowly, it dawned on Damian that they had thirty more children left to save.

            “No,” came a voice, from behind them. “He couldn’t. No one could.”

            Immediately, Damian and Lian were on their feet, in a perfectly synced protective fighting stance before the kids. Sophia Moss – Arete – stood there, smiling at them with those dangerous, predatorial eyes, the black, fingerless gloves wrapped around her forearms more elegant than practical. In her right hand, she held a small device: the trigger.

            “This has been,” she purred, eyes fixed on Damian, “ _very_ entertaining, children.”

            She clicked the button in her hand, and Damian threw himself forward, arms outstretched, finally willing and able to tear her to pieces, anticipating the blast behind him and screaming, “ _NO-!_ ”

            The ground beneath them shuddered, and an explosion shook, but no children behind them were harmed. They cried loudly, and Lian was instantly on her knees, tearing the bombs off of them. “They’re connected,” she said, incredulously, looking at Damian. “One detonation must have disabled them all.”

            There were screams from outside, and Damian did not move, eyes locked on Arete, as Lian herded the children out of the building to the police and the people waiting outside.

            Arete smiled at him, and the smile no longer ate at him, because in some calm, rational part of his mind, he knew that he had permission to hurt her, at last. “Careful,” she said. “Next blast brings this place to the ground.”

            “What have you done?” he demanded, shortly.

            She nodded towards the front doors, left wide open. When he did not look away from her, she replied: “Your team should be all caught up in evacuation right now. Be quick. The first hour or so always sees the most casualties.”

            “ _What have you_ -”

            “Wayne Tower,” she said, her voice steel. “Wayne Manor. The Martha Wayne Building, the Thomas Wayne Memorial Hospital.” She smiled at him, showing would-be pointed teeth. “Everything,” and her voice was high, and cold, “you Waynes have ever slapped your name across.” Almost gleefully, she held up her device, waving it in front of him. “Gone,” she said, voice a whisper like a puff of smoke. “Buildings tumbling down on so many innocent civilians. How many times do we have to destroy you before you stay down, Mister Wayne?”

            He watched her. And then he moved forward, advancing upon her, and she didn’t turn away.

            “Neon Knights Community Centers,” she taunted him, taking a simple, long stride backwards, “like this one. According to you, now centers for Batman, Incorporated, subsidiary of Wayne, Enterprises.” She smiled, and stopped, and Damian stood before her now, close enough he could touch her. “Poof,” she breathed.

            He lifted his fist, and punched her in the face. Staggering backwards, she spat blood.

            “Do you know how _easy_ it is,” she said, her voice loud and full of glee, “to plant _bombs_ in places, you look – literally, look – like you own the place?” She laughed. “Hush was right. You trust too much, Damian Wayne.”

            He hit her again, and again, she stumbled backwards, almost falling onto a corner column. “I don’t trust _anyone_ ,” he said, viciously. He had not fled, had not walked away from her, even to the aid of his teammates. He was going to be the one to see her pummeled into the ground, and _then_ he would help the others. But first, he would relish in her destruction.

             Blood staining her teeth, dark eyes looking up at him, she beamed a hyena’s laughing grin, and, softly, she said: “He was right about that, too.”

            With one finger, she pressed the button again, and echoed: “ _Poof_.”

            The building itself shivered, and then there was a rumbling explosion around them. Reaching out, he took physical hold of her body, twisting her arm behind her back, and then attempting to heave in a fireman’s hold onto his own back; while the building began to crumble around them, she yanked her arm out of his grasp and wrapped them around his head, using her body weight to jerk his neck hard enough that a smaller man’s would have broken. He allowed her no time, and flipped her body, more lithe than his, but still sturdy and tall, over him, onto the ground, and then dropped a knee onto her neck.

            Above them, the roof caved in, and Damian was thrown to the ground by a spray of concrete and steel, the building crashing in on them. In the chaos, Arete scrambled away from him, and the sudden dust around them obscured her location to him. The sounds of the building collapsing were punctuated by the sudden piercing sounds of bullets firing, and Damian felt hot blood coming from his left leg, although he couldn’t tell if it was from the debris falling, or the semi-automatic that Arete had pulled – he saw now that she had been moving deliberately, shielding herself from the worst of the destruction by the steady corner column by which she stood, which did not fall amongst the sliding rubble. Backwards, holding the gun pointed at Damian, she grinned at him – a grin full of genuine pleasure and delight, none of those horrific, artificial things she’d worn before – and Damian couldn’t get to his feet, as he realized that his leg wouldn’t budge, caught under a slab of concrete from the ceiling. By now, the police had surely dispersed the crowd, pulled them away from the building, and his team had probably gone to do what they could for the people trapped in buildings that had been dotted with bombs.

            The pounding sound around them got louder, and this disoriented Damian – he must have a concussion, this must be the sound of his blood pumping in his head – and just as he thought that, the look on Arete’s face shifted slightly, as if she were becoming aware of the sound as well.

            And then, out of nowhere, something huge and hulking and powerful grabbed the woman’s body as if she were as light as a chess piece, and a massive hand threw her in the air, then down at the ground, and the gun clattered out of her hand as she collapsed, unconscious.

            Someone tore away the debris from his leg, and there was a great burst of light and burning, painful heat. Damian shouted in pain.

            When he looked down, Lucas straightened up, Damian’s cauterized wound under his hands.

            “Hey,” he said, breathlessly. Then, with a characteristically self-conscious glance behind them, at the hulking figure standing above Arete's unconscious body, Lux said: “I found Colin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the hiatus! School started, and has been Rough. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	16. Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Win
> 
> 1\. A victory for one of the two players in a game, which may occur due to checkmate, resignation by the other player, the other player exceeding the time control, or the other player being forfeited by the tournament director. Chess being a zero-sum game, this results in a loss for the other player. An exception is a win as a result of a tournament bye.  
> 2\. A position is said to be a winning if one specified side, with correct play, can eventually force a checkmate against any defence (i.e. perfect defence). Also called a won game.

            When Lucas tucked his arm under Damian’s shoulder and helped him to his feet, Damian let out an emphatic grunt of pain. The throbbing in his mangled leg, wounds burnt closed by Lucas’s electrical pulse, send grating shivers through his body. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered.

            “You were losing too much blood,” Lux replied, taking more of Damian’s weight. “I’m sorry it doesn’t look pretty – you can get reconstructive surgery later, but I’m not about to let you black out in the middle of all this action.”

            Damian almost replied to this, taken aback by the how little hesitance there seemed to be Lux’s voice. Together, they took a few steps, and then Damian got used to the pain and the compensational redistribution of his weight he needed to carry himself, and leaned less on Lux. Nodding before them, where Arete lay, unconscious, he murmured, “Where did you find him?”

            Colin Wilkes – Abuse – a giant, hulking monster of a man, was half-kneeling on the ground, covered in dust from the rubble, ginger hair a dirty, deep reddish-brown. “He’s still working through the Venom, I can tell,” answered Lux, he didn’t glance over at Damian, eyes soft, watching Abuse. “He was _hiding_. We kept looking for him as a criminal, or an animal, when he’s…he was just scared, Robin. I think he’s been scared this whole time.”

            They limped towards Colin’s huge body, and then Damian let go of Lux, keeping his weight on his good leg. “Go,” he murmured to Lucas. “The city’s falling apart. Help.”

            “Are you sure-?”

            “I’m sure,” responded Damian. With one more worried glance towards Colin, he headed back into the crowd of police, with whom Lian was doing her best to guide. Even standing, he was level with the dirty, scarred flesh of Abuse’s back, as the giant knelt. Damian reached out, and placed a hand on that back.

            Underneath his gloved touch, the giant body shuddered.

            “Abuse,” said Damian.

            Nothing.

            He leaned down, searching for the thing’s face, pressed into the ground. “Colin,” he said. “Look at me.”

            There was a split second of silence, and then instantly the thing pulled away from Damian, its huge, ox-like neck twisting to face him with a giant, ugly mouth, and he roared, voice hoarse and breath rank and sour, straight back into Damian’s face. Specks of spittle flew from Abuse’s open mouth, a jagged gash in his face, and Damian didn’t look away.

            When Colin’s voice bled away, Damian was still there. “Colin,” he said again. “Can you hear me?”

            This time, Colin did not respond with a primal roar, and Damian took that as a good sign.

            “Ellen’s in danger,” he told him. “So is the rest of the city, but we both know you have a talent for tearing things down, and that’s precisely what she needs right now.” Retrieving something from his belt, he reached out and fitted it on Colin’s ear. “Gotham’s falling around us already,” he said, lowering his voice, fingers working expertly on the commlink. “My place in it, at the very least. And you know what they say. Rise from the ashes, and whatnot.”

            Colin grunted, and Damian pulled away.

            Then he lowered himself to a crouch on his good knee, looked Colin in the eye. “Find her,” he said simply, “if it means tearing this city apart.”

            Laboriously, he got back to his feet and turned, limping away from Colin, nearly dragging his bad leg. For a second, Abuse did not move. And then he got up to his feet, a full eight feet and ten inches tall, roared at Damian’s back, heading away from him, and turned around and ran back into the labyrinth of the city blocks around them, covered in dust from the falling buildings.

            As Damian headed away, Lian rushed to his side, slipping her arm around him to provide support. “Damn,” she said, looking down at his leg. “Sure you’re not going to pass out?”

            “No,” he replied, grimacing. “Lux did a terrible job of it.”

            “He stopped the bleeding, you should be thanking him,” she replied, as he let out a hiss of pain. “Don’t be a baby. Remember that time I shot you? You didn’t cry then.”

            “You didn’t _shoot_ me.”

            “I did,” she replied indignantly. “It wasn’t my fault your Kevlar stopped the bullet. I curb-stomped you, too, which has to count for something.” She tried giving him a sincere smile, and it was a valiant attempt that made him feel like a teenager in an irresponsible team again, and he could no longer tell whether or not he liked that feeling.

            Through the rush of people moving, the crowd thronging away, the police shouting to control them, Lian steadily supported Damian as they limped back to the car, tucked into an alleyway. It was nighttime, sirens and lights and fires lit up the darkness, dust thick in the air. The soaring silhouette of Wayne Tower was gone, leaving a gaping hole in the Gotham skyline, tearing down offices and conference rooms and the Penthouse, at the very top – Damian’s first home in Gotham. He may have stayed in the Manor, but before Dick took responsibility for him, he’d never had a home outside of his mother’s instruction.

            But he did not look up, searching for the emptiness in the night. Lian helped him into the car, and then said, “Head back to the Haven, reconvene with Seraph. You can work with her from there.”

            Damian held her arm tightly, attempting to stand up again. “I’m not about to be _grounded_ -”

            Firmly, she held him down in the seat. “You’re injured,” she said. “And we’ve got to deal with the destruction first, before anything else. I’m going to see what I can do, you can organize from the Haven.”

            With a withering glance at her, he tore his arms from her grip. “They don’t need you,” he said.

            Taken aback, she withdrew slightly, and gaped at him. “If there’s something I can-”

            Damian rolled his eyes, then explained to her, “This is not my _first time_ playing against Tommy Elliot, Arsenal. Wayne Tower has been empty since I realized he was behind this. Tam took the initiative for the Thomas and Martha Wayne buildings.”

            Lian stared at him. “So-”

            “So there’s destruction, yes,” he said impatiently, nodding, “but not devastation. Neon Knights will suffer the most out of this – we had three community centers, including this one, and they’re ash and dust now.” He looked up at her, eyes dark and heavy behind his mask. “I’m sure ours was the only one that was empty.”

            He swung into the car, and took the door.

            “Get in,” he said. “We’re going after Hush.”

            She did not hesitate, slipping into the car with him, taking the wheel, spinning out of the alley. “You know where he is?” she asked.

            “No,” he replied. “But I have an agent on it.”

            “Ember being _captured_ ,” countered Lian, speeding through the streets, “does not count as an _agent on it_.”

            “Not her,” snapped Damian, and then he touched something at his ear. “Abuse,” he said, into the commlink.

            In reply, a huge roaring filled the commlink, and Damian flinched away, tearing the link out of his ear; he was only glad it was not his earlier design, which was threaded through the piercing in his ear and therefore far more difficult to take out. Gingerly, without glancing at Lian, he fixed it on once more.

            “Please don’t shout,” he said. “Where are you?” Grunting, and another half-roar. “I said _don’t_ shout. Use your words, Colin.”

            This time, although he could not quite articulate words, Colin didn’t seem to scream. A few moments of emphatic grunting, which evolved into a whining, which gave Damian hope.

            “I’m staying on the line,” Damian continued. “If you find her, let me know. I’m listening to you. If you’re in trouble, let me know. I will help you, Colin, and we’ll do this together.”

            Damian took the grunting in response as an affirmative, and decreased the volume, keeping Colin on the line but muting his own speech. Lian glanced at him, then said: “I’m officially jealous. You never talk romantic like that with me.”

            “Drive,” said Damian.

            “Where to?” responded Lian.

            “The Manor, first,” Damian told her. “If I were Tommy Elliot, that’s where I’d go first.”

            Lian made a face, her tongue tucked in between her teeth. “Don’t ever say that,” she said. “ _If I were Tommy Elliot_. This is why your friends can’t stand you, y’know. And don’t you have Alfred there, or something?”

            “Tommy likes playing Alfred,” replied Damian. “He likes hurting those he feels are inferior to him, and he sees Alfred as nothing more than our servant. He’s wrong, and of course I wasn’t about to leave an old man alone. Not that the man isn’t more than competent, but for convenience’s sake-”

            “ _Damian_ , for Christ’s sake, get to the _point_.”

            He glanced at her, almost self-consciously. “He’s with Oracle,” he finished, gruffly.

            She revved the car, weaving through traffic, heading out of the city. The streets were alternatively crowded or completely vacant, too many citizens caught up watching the destruction of the Wayne buildings, which lay in a pile of rubble where they one proudly stood. Damian had not yet paused long enough to find a casualty count, and he did not intend to do sountil this was over.

            Without warning, Lian took a sharp turn left to head onto the Kane Bridge, dense but not yet packed with cars. In the middle of the crowded intersection right before her turn, the car seemed to hover for just one moment, frozen in its wide swing onto the bridge-

            And then a massive black behemoth of a vehicle rammed into them, and the screaming, grinding sounds of metal clashing filled their own narrow space, slamming them onto the bridge and into other cars before them. The SUV didn’t slow down, both vehicles huge and armored, able to withstand the impact; Lian shouted something, then, as the movement slowed, she reached out and took hold of Damian’s hand, slammed it on the wheel. From behind them, three more black muscle cars came from nowhere, pulling up on either side of their original attacker, ignoring the wreckage of the other vehicles on the bridge cluttering around them. And then the gunfire began, like a thousand firecrackers going off at once, colliding against the side of the car and ricocheting off. As Lian reached into the seat behind her, Damian said wildly, “Civilians – we need to get them out of here ASAP-”

            “They’re doing an OK job with that on their own, Robin,” she replied sharply, digging for something; indeed, outside people were fleeing their wrecked cars, or otherwise speeding off to evacuate the bridge. “Right now our priority has to get those _assholes_ to stop shooting the hell out of us!”

            She reached up and tugged back the glass of the sunroof, then hefted something in her arms. “What is that?” asked Damian, sounding almost panicked. “Lian, what are you-?”

            His protests were drowned out by the sound of returning gunfire as she tilted the automatic weapon out of the top of the car and shot back at them, emptying rounds onto the floor of the car. Damian screamed at her, then reached up, trying to tug her down. “Stop it!” she shouted down at him, kicking his hand away. “I’m trying to shoot them!”

            “ _I know you are!_ ” he shrieked back at her. “Whatever happened to _nonlethal weapons_ , Arsenal!”

            “I quit the Titans!” she yelled at him, foot connecting solidly with the side of his face. “And I _grew a pair_ , which, honestly, you could stand to do right now!”

            “There are _civilians_ -!”

            “Yeah, and if you would let me distract the bad guys for, like, five minutes, we might be able to get them off the bridge safely!”

            Damian slammed the gas with his bad leg, letting out a grinding gasp of pain, and wrenched the wheel sideways, giving Lian a clearer shot, putting distance in between them and the other vehicles. The people shooting at them were dressed in business suits, faces obscured by what looked like Greek theater masks, twisted and profane in their gaping tragi-comedic grins.

            “Hey,” she shouted again, above the gunfire; ducking back down into the car, she thrust the gun into Damian’s hands. “Cover me,” she said, diving down to her supplies again, searching for something else.

            Without hesitating, he took the weapon and popped out of the roof; the shooters were advancing on them, but still a good thirty feet away. Damian handled the firearm expertly. It had been a long time since he used a legitimate, real weapon like this, and the way it shook in his grip with the power of each shot electrified him, dangerously reminded him of what it felt like to be in control of someone else’s life or death.

            And then Lian squeezed her own body out beside him, out into the evening air, her hip jutting into his body. Skillfully, she aimed the huge grenade launcher, and shot five times. “What are you _doing?_ ” shouted Damian, as not a single shot landed on its presumed target.

            “Winning,” said Lian, and she clicked a button in her hand. Five perfectly-planted explosions shot fire and debris into the air, and that section of the bridge crumbled into the water, dropping those masked goons with guns, and their giant SUVs, into the harbor below. Furious, Damian turned to scream at her, but immediately Lian wrapped her arm around his waist and shot an arrow upwards, towards a column farther down the bridge. Just as she pulled them out of the car, the road beneath them gave way, and it went plunging into the cold water below.

            She let go of him before they were quite on the ground again, and he toppled down at the edge of the bridge, gritting his teeth at the pain in his leg. Once they were both standing on solid ground again, he turned to her, nearly shaking with rage. “What are you _doing!_ ” he demanded. “How dare you destroy part of _my city_ like that – right after I stuck my neck out to name you as a member of _my_ organization – my name is going to be stamped _all over this_ , Arsenal-”

            “We were both going to get shot,” she replied stonily. “I saved us. I’m sure Arete’s henchmen can swim.”

            “You blasted a _bridge_ -”

            “Not the first thing to be blown up tonight,” she said curtly, folding her arms. “Don’t pretend like I didn’t do my job, Robin, because I just did. _You’re_ the one who needed help.”

            He stared at her, gaping for a moment, and then tore something out of his belt, activating a tracker that would send two motorcycles from the Cave, assuming the garage below was still at all intact. Without saying another word to Lian, he pressed the commlink at his ear, leaving Colin for just one moment. “Seraph,” he said. “Status report.”

            “We’re holding down fort,” she replied immediately. “Jabberwock’s back in action, clearing rubble. Spoiler’s only just put her mask back on, but she’s working on crowd control now, and so is Lux. What did he say about finding Abuse?”

            “Later. How many facilities are the Waynes down?”

            “Wayne Tower, the Thomas Wayne Memorial Hospital and surrounding clinics, the Martha Wayne Institute for Philanthropy, plus the art gallery in her name on fifth. Three Neon Knights Community Centers and the Wayne home for orphaned kids. Not to mention Wayne Manor.”

            “You have a visual on the house?”

            “I do.”

            “How bad?”

            “Let’s just say you should think about redecorating, Robin.”

            Damian stared out before him, at the end of the bridge; there were people gathered there, in awe of the destruction, and Lian began to direct them away from the bridge, instructing them to rope it off as best they could. In his head, Damian filed through the places destroyed, and what little Sophia Moss had given him to work with.

            _Everything you Waynes have ever slapped your name across_. Tower, hospital, buildings, community centers, home, he ticked off the places in his head.

            And then something shifted into place, and his body tightened, stiffened somehow. “Arkham,” he said.

            On the other line, Niloufar seemed confused. “What?”

            “Was Arkham hit?”

            “Arkham Asylum?” A pause, and then, “No. It wasn’t. Why?”

            In the distance, two sleek black bikes sped towards them, riderless, and burning. “When he posed as Bruce Wayne,” Damian said, to Seraph, “Tommy Elliot dumped billions of dollars everywhere he could. One such place was Arkham Asylum. With my family’s money, they renovated the entire East Wing.” He hesitated, things clinking into place, and then he said: “They now call it the Wayne Ward.”

            “So? What does that mean?”

            “It means,” said Damian, as the cycles skidded to a halt before he and Lian, and ran a hand along the make, inspecting it with subdued approval, “I know where Ember is.”

\------

            Tommy hummed as he worked. “ _Da dum, da dum, da da, da dum_.”

            Ellen didn’t recognize the tune, but she was sure that Damian would, were he here. Leather straps still squeezed at her body, compressing her lungs just so that she could never take a full breath. It wasn’t enough to force her into unconsciousness, but the more she tried to breathe deeply, the more difficult it became.

            “Are you stalling?” she asked, without turning her face to look at his. “Or do you just enjoy wasting my time?”

            “Both,” he replied instantly, glancing back at her, grinning. With a pair of surgical scissors, he snipped off the end of the gauze around his face, tucking the edge in around the back of his head. Only his eyes and mouth were visible, but they shone in the darkness, watching her. “And neither. You aren’t waiting in vain, little rat, that much I assure you.” He lifted up a surgical knife, and it balanced it expertly along his palm. “I’m prepping you for surgery.”

            “You’re waiting for an audience,” she countered. “If you’re going to kill me-”

            “Stop saying that,” he said, bearing down over her, knife in hand. “Stop saying _if_.”

            “Stop waiting for Damian to watch whatever horrific thing you’re prepared to do to me,” she replied, simply. “As soon as he shows up, it’s over for you, Doctor. I don’t know why you want him here so much, other than the fact that you like men seeing the women they love tied up and helpless.”

            “Tied up is a bit overkill, to be honest,” he said, fairly. “Mostly dead will do, in a pinch.”

             “I can’t tell what’s more obscene, your obsession with Bruce Wayne, or with the death of your mother.”

            “Not the _death_ , little Ember,” he said, and his smile was no longer soft, or full of humor. Instead it was dangerous, like the chattering grin of a hyena. Lowering his head close to her ear, lips brushing her skin – she could hear the soft sounds of the gauze shifting, as he spoke – he said: “I was always very fond of her death. It was her life that gave me all the trouble.”

            He pulled away, and tugged plastic gloves onto both hands.

            “I hear we have that in common,” he remarked. Ellen said nothing. A small beeping from the plate of surgical instruments, and Tommy glanced at it, then beamed. “Excellent,” he said. “It seems about time to get started, doesn’t it, Miss Nayar?”

            She watched him, lips pressed together. And then she asked: “Plan running smoothly?”

            “Smoothly as one could hope,” he replied with a nod. He lifted a surgical mask around his mouth, tying it snugly at the back of his head. “Speaking of disappointing mothers, and of the plan, that is,” he continued, looking at her – she could tell he was smiling, even though she could no longer see his face, “Talia al Ghul sends her regards. You were still unspoken for, of course, when I last communicated with the woman, but I’m sure she’s dying to meet you.” He chuckled, looking down at his tools. “Lovers,” he added, “make for good partners in matricide.”

            “That is _not_ Aristotle,” she said, with a slight roll of her eyes.

            “No,” he replied pointedly. “That’s Elliot wisdom, from the mouth of the man himself.”

            She looked up at him, eyes flickering from the bandages around his face to the mask over his lips to his hands, gloved and holding his instruments of surgical torture. “I want to make a deal with you,” she said.

            “Doubt it,” he said, cocking his head slightly. “But please, share with the class.”

            “You can open my scars,” she said to him, “if I can rip open yours.”

            He grinned at her, behind the mask. “No,” he said. “No, little rat.” He held up the knife. “I can do whatever I want to you.” Reaching out, he tried to take hold of her chin, but she turned her head away, jerking away from his grasp. He tutted at her. “Silly girl. I’m a surgeon, believe me. I’ll repair that ugly scar, give you the cosmetic makeover you could never afford, and which your dignity wouldn’t allow you to take, had your petty little fiancé offered.”

            She didn’t look at him, jaw clenched tightly shut.

            His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he let out a small, delighted laugh. “He _has_ offered, hasn’t he?” Hush asked, in awe. “Look at you. A little rat with integrity to spare. No wonder he’s so smitten.”

            “If you want to marry me, Doctor Elliot,” she said curtly, with a tight smile up at him, “you should have asked first.”

            He let out another humming little laugh. “Piety requires us to honor truth over friends,” he declared clearly. “So I must admit, my dear, that I wouldn’t marry you if you were born rich and powerful to a family as old as Gotham. Not with a face like that.”

            Ellen stared at him. Then she asked, “How did you kill your mother?” He blinked at her, the grin still somehow visible behind the mask on his face. “Did you talk her to death?”

            The smile disappeared. He twisted the surgical knife in his hands, the blade of the scalpel sharp and shining. Then he plunged his hand downwards, sinking the knife into the flesh of her inner elbow, straight through the fabric of her uniform.

            Her eyes closed tightly, jaw clenched in pain, but she did not cry out.

            “No,” he said coolly. “I smothered her to death, because she took too long to die.”

            He tightened his grip on the scalpel, shifting it in the wound it created. Slowly, he began to wrench it upwards, cutting through her flesh.

            “I could give you a new face,” he murmured to her, gaze washing over her prone body. “Or I could replicate that ugly scar, all over your skin. Carve it into every square inch I can reach. Paint it all over your body, so you bleed out slowly.” He stopped, leaving the knife sticking out of her upper arm, blood pumping in waves from her wound, spilling onto the flat table where she lay, and on the ground.

            “Careful,” whispered Ellen, eyes still closed. “I don’t think Ivy will appreciate you getting blood everywhere in her cell.”

            Hush stared at her. “Excuse me?” he asked.

            As best she could, strapped into place, she shrugged. “Why else would you orchestrate a huge display of how dangerous she can be?” she asked. “You triggered the crisis here, because you needed Pamela Isley in solitary confinement, so you could let her build a safe little cocoon for your execution grounds.”

            He watched her, and his eyes were uncannily soft. Almost gently, he said to her: “Not a chopping block, little rat. An operating theater.”

            “I’m sure you think you’re very clever,” she shot at him, derisively. “Where’s the one place,” Ellen said to him, her head turned to stare up at him, arm still a crimson, bleeding mess, “no one’s looking for you?”

            He cocked his head slightly, allowing her to speak.

            Without waiting for him to speak, answering her own question, Ellen continued, “This isn’t my prison, Doctor Elliot. It’s yours.”

            “Bruce Wayne trapped me here wrongfully for a brief period years ago,” Hush said smartly, digging into her flesh. The knife grated against bone, and Ellen’s face contorted in pain, but still she said nothing. “That doesn’t make it my prison any more than it makes it your mother’s.”

            The pain seemed to melt away from her face as she stared, eyes like dark steel, up at him.

            Hush smiled at her. “That was our second route of attack,” he said, leaving the knife in her arm, turning to the metal plate full of tools, and inspecting those he had left. “Divya Nayar, wrongly institutionalized in this prison all those years ago, but then again, the bitch did carve that scar right onto her daughter’s face. We considered simply writing you off as the crack-baby of an insane child-abuser, and use your husband-to-be’s poor taste in women to attack his reputation. But then I meet lovely Sophia, wisdom, excellence, virtue, _Arete_ , and she says: why target the whore when you could expose he who pays her?”

            He grinned at her through the mask, like a wolf wearing a muzzle.

            “Oh, and,” he added, “Pammy doesn’t mind all that blood. She doesn’t get enough water in here for her precious children anyway. This will do well.”

            Hush turned completely away from Ellen, peering into the semi-darkness.

            “Isn’t that right, sweet Ivy?” he purred, and a figure shifted slightly. Ivy hung halfway up the wall, arms thrown out as if she hung on a crucifix, limbs weaved into the organic matter covering the room in a dense layer.

            Fondly, Hush watched her. When Ellen said, “Doctor Elliot,” he did not look around.

            “Hmm, little rat?” he purred, reaching out, running one gloved hand down Poison Ivy’s side.

            “Damian told me,” Ellen continued, her voice very slow, and measured, “that he used to play chess, with you.”

            He cocked his head slightly, still looking up admiringly at Ivy’s body, hanging there, eyes milky and unseeing. “I make a habit out of playing with the Wayne boys, I suppose.”

            “He said you were always six steps ahead of the game.”

            “True.”

            “That’s inconvenient for you.”

            Hush let out a very quiet, very gentle laugh. “Oh? How so?”

            There was a short silence. And then, Ellen said, calmly: “My lucky number is seven.”

            For a moment, nothing. And then, Hush’s eyes narrowed, still focused on Poison Ivy. He turned on his heels, reaching out to retrieve another knife from his steel plate of tools, but then he froze, eyes going wide.

            The wide leather straps were empty, and the examination table was vacant, and Ember was gone.


	17. Prophylaxis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prophylaxis
> 
> 1\. A move that frustrates an opponent's plan or tactic.  
> 2\. A strategy in which a player frustrates tactics initiated by the opponent until a mistake is made.  
> 3\. Prophylactic techniques include the blockade, overprotection, and the mysterious rook move.

            With a manic, disgusted snarl, Hush tore the surgical mask from his face. “ _Little rat_ ,” he hissed, whipping around, bloodthirsty eyes sweeping through the corners of the room and then-

            A bloody scalpel plunged into the corner of his eye, and he screamed in rage and pain, hands shooting out like claws to grasp onto Ellen’s body, struggling with her, slick with blood from the still-pumping wound on her elbow, from which she had torn the knife now sticking out of his eye. She yanked down on the blade, and it slid across his face, slitting through the bandages wrapped around his head, staining them crimson. In his moment of weakness, she slammed him to the ground, pinning him as best she could. “ _Amateur_ ,” she hissed, teeth bared, face lowered towards his. “You _gave_ me a weapon.”

            He screamed again, like a wounded animal, their blood mingling, wetting the protected clothing they wore, making the space where their skin was exposed slick, raising a stink like a penny under your tongue. Ellen Nayar was not a small woman, but Hush was far larger and stronger than she was, and, with immense force, he rolled over, taking her with him, pinning her smaller body under his – he plucked the knife from her hands, balled it tightly in his fist, feeling it squish and slide, friction slicked by blood.

            Ellen held up her arms to keep him from reaching her throat with the surgical knife, thin and precise as it was. Now the blade dug into her forearm, slicing through skin as easily as it were butter. “ _My_ knife,” hissed Hush. “ _My_ hostage, _my_ plan, _my_ revenge.”

            “You’re a child, Tommy,” she taunted, refusing to meet his eyes, gaze focused urgently on the knife before her face. Loose strands of long brown-black hair slipped from her braid, framing her sweat-drenched face. “You _never_ grew up, never grew past those who hurt you. You’ve always been afraid of the past, afraid of how it hurt you, terrified of being hurt again. _He who has overcome his fears will be truly free_.”

            She leered up at him, hatred in her eyes.

            “Scars can’t hurt you, Hush,” she spat at him, “and you don’t scare me.”

            With one small movement, she slipped her hands down to grip his wrist, and snarled up at him.

            “ _Do you think I’m afraid_ ,” she roared, in the darkness, with the stink of her blood hanging low and heavy, like a creeping miasma, “ _of getting my face slashed?”_

            She jerked his hand forward; the blade stabbed, hard, into her face, but the force of his own momentum all bearing down in that direction threw him off balance. Blood streamed across her face, stinging in her eyes and hot and sour in her mouth, but she threw him off, brought her elbow down, hard into the back of his neck, and then brought her knee up into his mouth. Hush collapsed on the floor, and immediately she was at a wall, searching for an opening, slicing through the vegetation covering the place with the small knife.

            Groaning, panting like a mad dog, Hush stumbled to his feet. She located a door, and it would not open; she dug into her suit, hand dipping under her uniform to the pouch attached to the wide side strap of her sports bra, and produced two small devices which she smacked onto the door, and activated by slamming her fists into each, bruising her knuckles, further injuring her wounded arm, wracked with pain all the way from her wrist to her shoulder. Hush reached out, stumbled, and grabbed hold of her long braid, which fell all the way to her waist. Without even turning her head, Ellen yanked her braid up, then sliced it off an inch above his hand with the blade she still held – the room shook with a minor explosion, the door caved in to offer her an opening, and she took it, leaving Hush bleeding on the floor, howling in pain and anger, clutching onto the end of her pretty black braid, limp and lifeless, taunting him.

            Laboriously, he got to his feet, mouth open, a contorted, furious grimace there. He moved forward like a stalking animal, haunches raised, teeth bared, fingers spread like claws. Tearing the blood-soaked bandages from his face, he stepped out of the room, and followed Ember into the dark, empty, echo-filled halls of Arkham Asylum.

            He staggered through the halls, white bandages sticking to his face, wet with blood. “Ember!” he shouted, into the empty hallways. “ _Little rat!_ Don’t wander too far – I haven’t even _begun_ your operation!”

            Far before him, Ellen slipped through the corridors silently, clutching her wounded arm. Sprinting through a block, she slapped more small buttons onto the walls as she went, alerting the inmates inside that something was amiss. When she arrived at the end of a block and the partition leading to administrative offices, again, she blew the door’s lock. She hated that she could not close it for good after her, but also knew that she would not allow herself to be trapped there, if it came to that. Always ways out, always doors, never trapped. The mantra ran through her head, pumping in tune to the beat of her heart, which she fought to keep down, to control, so that the bleeding would slow. Never trapped. Never trapped.

            There was a light on in an office, and she threw herself into it without question. This time the door was unlocked, and she closed it but did not latch it behind her, turning off the lights, then finally spinning around to face the body at the desk.

            A man in a long doctor’s coat sat slumped over at the desk. Blood dripped from a single gunshot entry wound on his forehead. She closed her eyes, hope leaking out of her, and then moved forward silently, searching through the dead man’s desk. After a minute of frantic searching, she found a first aid kit and sat down with her back resting against the drawers, the desk hiding her from the door. Then she wrapped gauze around her wound and applied a tourniquet, tying it off with her teeth. For one brief moment, she laid her head back on the cabinet behind her.

            Then, unflinchingly, she reached up and began to re-braid her hair, using surgical thread from the first aid kit to tie it off.

            It felt strange, to be in uniform without her mask. Above all else, she’d always been careful with her mask, never removing it, never letting it budge. It covered her face, her dark skin and distinctive scar, which they knew was a dangerous thing for one to have with a secret identity. If anyone had ever torn that mask from her face – if anyone had ever seen her –

            She supposed it didn’t matter now, not when the whole world was on their way to knowing Robin’s real name. It hadn’t been much of a secret for a long time, but something burned in her belly when she thought of the care she’d taken to hide her face, to keep herself from being seen. Damian was a great man; more than that, he was a good man. But he was also rich and careless, and in his carelessness, he thought could get out of being held accountable because of his wealth, and his privilege. But he forgot others were not so lucky. And he forgot that he came from the same stock as Tommy Elliot, had that same aristocratic, inconsiderate smirk.

            Outside, a loud clanging sound began to ring, inmates beating on doors and bars. Faintly, she could hear Hush shouting for her, taunting her to come out and play. Games, games. Always _games_ with him, it _infuriated_ her, these men who think they can do anything and get away with it just because they called it _chess_ …

            Tommy Elliot keened, “ _Li_ -ttle rat!”

            He passed by the huge, padded cells, and a cackling laugh burst through the rising collision of sound. That laugh was thin and intolerable, and it drew the grin right off of his face.

            Like a breeze sweeping through the stale air of the asylum, a voice came floating out to him. “Not a rat!” cackled the monster, locked away except for a narrow slat, where usually inmates would push their faces against, peering out behind their prison. “Not a _rat_ , hee-hee-ha! A mouse! A micey-micey-mice!”

            Hush stopped, watching the cell. “Shut, up, Joker,” he said.

            “ _Little bunny foo-foo, hopping through the forest_.” His singing was high and shrill and cacophonous, amidst the growing clanging and shouting. “ _Pickin’ up the field mice, and boppin’ them on the head_.” Joker let out a long, high-pitched laugh, and Hush watched the cell.

            He moved forward, standing just before the long, narrow window. “Joker,” he said.

            Then he tugged a weapon out of his belt and raised the barrel of the gun up to the small window, and fired three shots straight into the cell.

            The Joker’s keening laughter intensified, and Hush hoped he was bleeding out.

            Turning back to face the cavernous line of cells and padded prisons, Hush roared, “Nowhere left to hide, sweet rat! Come let me fix you. It won’t hurt, once you’re done! And who knows? Your groom-to-be might be less disgusted by your ugly rat bitch’s _cleft_ of a face-”

            A door above him opened, and Ellen limped out, bright white bandages on her arm already turning the scarlet red of arterial blood.

            “Excellent!” shrieked Hush; around them, villains and criminals and some who, Ellen thought, like her mother, never deserved to be there in the first place, banged against their cages, yelling and shouting, like the audience at a cockfight. “Ready to play the game, dear Ember?”

            “No,” she replied stonily, holding a handrail down a steel industrial-grade flight of steps, stopping halfway to watch him with a bloody face and cold, dark eyes. “Ready to end it.”

            A tiny controller sat in her good hand, and she crushed it onto her palm, releasing a line of popping explosions down the walls – dust, smoke, and debris filled the long block, and then inmates poured out like ants in a line – some headed the opposite direction, terrified, and Ellen did nothing more than step aside to allow them to rush past her. Those closest to Hush launched themselves on towards him, desperate to tear and rend at bodies. Wayne Ward was full of those with the greatest powers, and the most dangerous of methods. As Hush shot at them, he attracted more attention, and they flocked towards him while Ellen stood there on the stairs and watched. Scarecrow – Croc – Clayface – Firefly – Jane Doe – then a woman with long blonde hair and a pretty smile ripped the gun away from a battered Hush, and held it to his head.

            And then, from behind them, a clattering crash filled the space, and huge, hulking man-thing shot into the room. Colin opened his huge mouth, and roared at the mass of inmates. Most of them cowered, but some, like Croc, did not quite back away, returning the fury. Before he could launch his body at Colin, another figure followed through Colin’s improvised entrance, and Jordan tackled Croc, throwing him to the ground.

            One more body stumbled into the room, eyes obscured by a small mask, but still uncertain in an open combat scenario. “Seraph!” shouted Jabberwock, fist colliding with Croc’s face, and the madness of the crowded block. “ _Now!_ ”

            Niloufar planted her feet, standing at the edge of the line of padded cells. And then she pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead, and closed her eyes tightly, the force of her concentration physically manifested in the tightness of her body.

            The inmates freed from their cages stopped moving, bodies falling loose, eyes rolling blank. And then, slowly, each one of them began to amble back to the cell from which they had broken loose. There, they collapsed, unconscious.

            Niloufar let out a gasping, wheezing breath, blood dripping from her nostrils – Jordan was instantly with her, lowering her to her knees, holding her tightly.

            From the steps behind Ellen, Robin descended into the fray, holding the handrails tightly to compensate for his wounded leg. When he was beside her, he stopped, and reached out; she took his arm, steadying him.

            He pulled slightly away, glancing down, then gently clasping her forearm in his hand. “You’re injured,” he murmured.

            “And you’re late,” she replied, watching him touch her bandaged arm. “Whatever happened to _‘til death do us part_?”

            “Haven’t said it quite yet,” he murmured pointedly, glancing up to meet her gaze. One hand flickered up to her face, wiping away blood. “As soon as you get this blood off your face, if you want.”

            “ _Damian!_ ” screamed Hush hoarsely, standing amidst the wreck of the Wayne Ward. Threateningly, he raised his gun in hand, advancing towards them with long, unsteady strides. “This is the last time you Waynes _spite_ me-”

            After exchanging one more lingering glance, both Ellen and Damian turned their heads to look back at Hush. His hands were shaking, but he stalked towards them still, furious. “It’s over, Doctor Elliot,” said Damian. “You never were going to win. You knew that.”

            With a scream of rage, Hush shot once at the two of them, at Robin and Ember, standing together, but before his finger could squeeze the trigger one more time, Colin’s huge, monstrous figure picked Hush up with a single hand, and threw him at the ground. Instantly, Ellen shot forward, leaving Damian and his bad leg. “Abuse-!” she began, her eyes wide, but Hush shouted like a wounded animal once more, and wrenched something out of his belt. At the same instant that Colin swatted him like bug with a sickening _crunch_ , Hush stabbed whatever he held into Colin’s thick skin.

            For a moment, nothing happened. And then Colin let go of Hush, left unconscious, and staggered backwards, teetering away until he fell, as if in slow-motion, onto the ground. Ellen shouted his name, then fell to her knees beside him; even as they watched, Colin’s gigantism began to wane, as if the Venom were leaking out of his body. Damian limped down the stairs, knelt by Hush’s body and pressed two fingers against his neck. Satisfied the man was alive, he looked up at Ellen, by Colin’s side.

            She tore the syringe out of his arm, tossing it aside and reaching out, desperately searching for a pulse. Still standing, Damian took the empty tube, inspecting it carefully. “He’s not breathing,” said Ellen; silently, Lucas appeared on the other side of Colin’s body, now the size of a regular man again – although he seemed so small and frail, in comparison to the monster he could be. “Robin – adrenaline-”

            “It won’t do him any good,” interrupted Niloufar, plucking the syringe from Damian’s hands, then kneeling beside Colin’s head. “Hush neutralized the Venom in his system.”

            “Why is that bad?” asked Lucas, worry written plainly across his face. “Isn’t that what he needed?”

            “Yes,” answered Niloufar, reaching out to check Colin’s pulse again. “But his body’s been under too much pressure. The kind of mental degradation he must have been facing – not only as a result of the toxin,” she continued, looking down at him, “but also because of his self-imposed exile, probably the only thing he thought he could do to keep himself from hurting anyone…” she trailed off, shaking her head. Glancing up at Ellen, she explained: “The Venom was the only thing holding him together.”

            “His heart stopped,” said Ellen.

            “I know,” said Niloufar, very calmly, and very gently. She turned to face Lucas, and then she reached out with one hand, and placed it on his shoulder. “Lux,” she said, straight to his face. “I’m very sorry.”

            He stared at her. Slowly, a darkness dawned over his expression, and Ellen clutched onto Colin’s limp hand with one of hers, the other reaching out to gently brush her fingers across his forehead, sweeping his dirty ginger hair out of his face.

            “No,” said Lucas, his voice trembling. Ellen did not tear her gaze from Colin’s eyes as Lucas reached toward, taking his face in his hands. Breath shuddering with a growing sob, he lowered his own face into Colin’s unmoving chest, tears caught by his black mask.

            Damian looked around them. Jordan stood behind Niloufar; she had never liked Colin, Damian knew, but they had been on a team together for years now, and come to respect each other a long time ago. Nell discarded her mask as she fell to her knees beside Lucas, leaning in to his shoulder, pain lining her face. Damian did not join them. He glanced around the cellblock, at the broken-open prisons, the unconscious villains around them. “No,” said Damian, quietly. Only Jordan looked around at him, raising an eyebrow. Facing away from Colin’s prone body, and the rest of his team huddles around him, Damian took one staggering step away, the pain in his leg clenching tightly. “No,” he said again, louder. “No one dies tonight.”

            At this, Ellen glanced back at him. Whether or not Lucas had heard Damian say this, Ellen wasn’t sure, but Lucas sat up anyway, and she saw that he was no longer shaking.

            “Nell,” said Lucas, carefully removing his gloves. “Get back.”

            She gaped at him slightly, then pulled away from him. “What are you going to do?” she asked, in awe, but almost – hopeful.

            He placed his hands on Colin’s bare chest. “His heart failed,” he responded to her, gently. “But that doesn’t mean he’s gone. His body’s in trouble, but if I could just – if we could just get his heart started again, he can _heal_ , I know he can…”

            Ellen reached out, touching his hands on Colin’s skin. “Lucas,” she said, her voice low. “Are you sure about this?”

            “No,” he replied, watching Colin’s still, frozen face. Because of those big brown eyes, the mass of freckles and the curly ginger hair, it was easy to think of him as something so harmless and gentle, easy to see him, when not transformed, as a child. But somehow it was in death that the sharp line of Colin’s brow stood out, the way his mouth curved downward at the corners, in an eerie threatening grimace. With a slow breath, Lucas said: “But it’s not as if there’s much left to lose.”

            Before he could do anything, Damian suddenly reached out, his grip vice-like on Lucas’s arm. “No,” he said, his voice hard.

            Lucas looked at him wildly. “What are you-”

            “ _Don’t_ ,” said Damian, beseechingly. “You’re the one who told me, the last time you used your powers one someone you loved-”

            The other man tore his arm from Damian’s grip, holding on to Colin tightly. “I _know_ my powers,” he replied, distraught. “I _know_ my limits – this isn’t a terrified kid trying to defend himself, this is _Colin_ , I need to – I can’t let him go-”

            “No,” repeated Damian, taking Lucas’s shoulder, pulling him away. Ellen muttered Damian’s name, reaching out across Colin’s body to touch him, but he ignored her. “You won’t have to. Leave it be, Lux.”

            “ _What?_ ” asked Lucas, confused, face still stained with tears.

            Nell knelt back down beside him again, leaning across to Damian, and hissed, “What are you _talking_ about-”

            “ _Wait_ ,” said Damian again, silencing them all. He got to his feet. “She’ll be here,” he said, eyes frantically searching around the block. “Wait for her.”

            “Wait for _who?_ ” asked Niloufar.

            “ _Iris_!” He whipped around. The exposed skin of his face was dirtied by sweat, blood, and rubble. If they could have seen his eyes, they would have known they were wide, and almost afraid. “ _Iris_ ,” he repeated. “She’s _here_. She’s everywhere – she was the one who saved Tim, she gave him speed, helped his body heal. She’s done it to me before, I _know_ she can get a heart beating again-”

            “Who is _Iris?_ ” demanded Niloufar.

            Before Damian protest say any more, Ellen took her hands away from Colin and said to Lucas: “Do it.”

            Lux laid his hand on Colin’s chest, and his veins pulsed golden underneath his skin; instantly Damian turned and shouted, but Ellen slipped to her feet and took hold of him, wrapping her arms around him, preventing him from stopping Lucas. He did not struggle, eyes focused on Colin, full of pain and loss he was holding back, yet unable to face the reality of it. The shock of Lucas’s electrical pulse jolted Colin’s body, lifting him up with the involuntary arch of his back. There was nothing; almost sheer silence there amongst the cells, and Damian fell loosely in Ellen’s arms, and she released her grip on him, but still held him close.

            Nothing. Again, Lux put his hands on Colin’s body, no time for grief, and sent an electric charge through his heart. Damian looked away, dropping his face into the crook of Ellen’s neck, unable to face the body on the floor.

            On the third pulse sent through Colin’s body – it smelled, vaguely, of scorched skin – he breathed.


	18. Adjournment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjournment
> 
> Suspension of a chess game with the intention to finish it later. It was once very common in high-level competition, often occurring soon after the first time control, but the practice has been abandoned due to the advent of computer analysis.

            The Manor was, as it turned out, mostly intact. It was the Cave beneath and the main front hall which suffered most of the damage, but they had already started on the repairs. Sounds of hammers striking metal drilled through the house. In the master bedroom, a small suitcase was on the bed, almost full, and Ellen gently smoothed the clothes on top, the bandages on her arm and face crisp and fresh. Despite his usual grace and silence, a slight thumping entering the room signaled her fiancé’s arrival. Ellen closed the suitcase, and then twisted slightly, turning to look at him.

            She smiled. Nodding to the cane in his hand, she asked, “How long ‘til your leg gets fixed?”

            He shrugged, glancing down at the cane disdainfully.  “I’m flying in the best reconstructive surgeons in the world,” he told her. “But it’ll take a few months of physical therapy, after that.” She didn’t reply, arms folded, watching him. “How are you healing?” he asked her.

            “Fine,” she replied, with a shrug. “The arm hurts. The face, not so much.”

            “What did your grandparents say?”

            “I haven’t seen them yet. Not until I go home.”

            There was a silence. Then he limped forward, and reached out, and gently touched her elbow. Ducking his head slightly to meet her gaze, he murmured: “You don’t have to go.”

            “I know,” she replied, unfolding her arms, and taking his, interlocking their fingers. “But I’d rather not be here when your father gets back.”

            He lifted her right hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against her fingers. “We could leave together,” he murmured.

            “Where?” she asked, wryly, watching him hold her hands close to him. “No more nights at the Penthouse. Right?”

            With a small, noncommittal shrug, he lowered her hand again, and leaned in towards her. “Maybe,” he replied. “But that’s not what I mean. It’s about the time we should be thinking about a home together, you know.”

            They both leaned in, and their lips touched briefly, chastely, sweetly.

            She said: “I think you know what I’m about to say.”

            “I think so too,” he countered. “So you could not say it, if you wanted.”

            Drawing away from him, she turned around, beginning to zip up her suitcase. “One of us has to,” she said pointedly, closing it, and lifting it off the bed. Damian reached out to take it from her, but she ignored her, setting it down on the ground. Then, finally she turned back to him. “A wedding isn’t the right thing for you right now,” she said, reaching out to dust off the front of his shirt. “You’re under a lot of scrutiny. What you need is to lie low for a while.”

            She hooked her hands around his neck, looking slightly up at him kindly. “I can do that,” he murmured, placing one hand on her waist, the other still holding the cane, “with you.”

            “With me,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed him along the line of his jaw and then, sadly, she said: “Or without me.”

            Something pained in his expression, he leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. “I’d much rather the former.”

            With a small laugh, Ellen pulled away. “I know you would,” she said. “Whatever happened to Lian?”

            “She left,” replied Damian, watching her intently. “She was gone by the time we got Colin to the hospital. Pursuing Sophia Moss, probably.”

            “Moss?” echoed Ellen, an eyebrow raised. “Didn’t the police take care of her?”

            Damian shook his head. “They never had her in custody,” he told her. “She was trained by the League of Assassins, I didn’t expect her to be caught so easily.”

            “It wasn’t _easy_ ,” said Ellen. “Colin almost died.”

            “Colin did die,” corrected Damian. “Just for one moment.”

            “Yes,” said Ellen quietly, nodding. She reached up and brushed her fingers through his hand, just above his ear. “But we had Lucas there. He saved the day, in the end.”

            “No,” said Damian, smiling gently at her. “You did all the heavy lifting, my love.”

            She returned his smile, gentle and loving. Her eyes were dark, and blanker than he would have wanted. She asked: “Who’s Iris?”

            The expression on his face instantly dropped. He didn’t look at her, gaze focused down at the ground. Quietly, he said, “You don’t have to be jealous-”

            She let out a bark of real laughter, as harsh as she always was. “I love you, Damian,” she said to him, earnestly, hungrily peering into his eyes, as if searching for something. “But you almost killed Colin because you were depending on this woman, and none of us even know who she is. You can’t pull stunts like that, not with the lives of my team.”

            “Our team,” he said.

            “ _My_ team,” she replied, bluntly. “Your team is your family, Damian, and I’m not your family yet.”

            This stung him, and she knew it did.

            “But while we’re on the subject,” she continued, and he said nothing, barely moving, jaw clenched. “Don’t fool yourself about what you did. All this press you’re getting right now is your fault. It’s intentional. Remember?” When he began to protest, she just held up a hand, speaking over him. “When you held that press conference, you knew exactly what you were doing. You never think of _consequences_ , Damian, which I don’t resent – I can admire sometimes – but what’s worse is that you only ever think of _yourself_.”

            “That’s not true,” he began. “Tommy Elliot forced my hand. If we were going to end that whole debacle, both in public and in private-”

            “You are so _desperate_ to be vindicated,” she interrupted, shaking her head, “that you had to have it your way. Your father spent years building his reputation, and that is his shield – don’t _look_ at me like that, you understand my point. Bruce Wayne’s irresponsible, lecherous reputation protects him. You couldn’t stand the thought of it. You can’t stand the thought of people thinking poorly of you, so you-”

            Stoically, Damian shook his head defiantly, and muttered, “I was _protecting_ my family-”

            She retracted her hand away from him as if she’d been burned, and told him, “No, you weren’t. You were controlling them.”

            “Sometimes, Ellen, it’s the same-”

            “It’s not,” she said stonily. “I have my team to take care of. You have your family, and because of what you did to them, without their consent – we’re in different spheres now.”

            He shook his head. “No we’re not,” he said.

            “I agreed to marry Damian,” she told him. “Not Robin.”

            Watching her carefully, he asked: “Can’t I be both?”

            “No,” she replied. “I want you to _be_ Damian. Damian who goes out every night wearing Robin’s uniform. It’s a title. Not an identity.”

            With an attempt at a smile, he teased, “You fell in love with me when I was Robin.”

            Bowing her head slightly, she corrected: “I fell in love with you when I found out you were more than that.”

            They leaned in and kissed each other; Damian put his hand on her face, gentle around the bandages, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, and they sunk into the kiss, sharing the familiar taste of their mouths with each other, gentle and sweet. Ellen pulled away and lifted a thin silver chain off of her neck, around her head. As she placed it in his hand, he shook his head, in pain. “No,” he said, and she had rarely seen him with that simple, upset anguish in his expression. “No, Ellen. Keep it.”

            She pressed the ring into his palm. “I can’t,” she said, watching him. “What am I going to do with it? I don’t have a place for it.”

            “You could wear it,” he said.

            “I will, one day,” she replied, her head cocked slightly, watching the silver chain. “But neither of us are there right now. Keep it warm for me.”

            He shook his head, and held it out to her. “No,” he said, stubbornly. “Take it. Please. Even if you never wear it again.”

            She held it for a moment longer, then leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see myself out,” she said lowly, and then she left the room, rolling her small suitcase behind her.

            Damian let her leave. When she was gone, he sat down on the bed, cane pressed into the ground between his feet. Later, he limped down the stairs, and into the kitchen listlessly, looking for something though he didn’t know what. A few steps into the kitchen, and he stopped, eyes fixed on something small sitting on the table.

            A black chess piece rested there, a king with a little silver chain wrapped around his slim body. Attached to the chain there was a ring with three large diamonds mounted onto a platinum band. Damian picked it up, and held it in his hand. Engraved in the cold metal on the side of the band was a word, drawn in slanted, cursive script. _Beloved_.

            He felt oddly detached from the situation, as if he did not know what it meant, that she would leave her ring, or as if it were something that didn’t touch him, something far away happening to someone else.

            Bruce came home on a Friday. Before meeting with anyone, or going to see the ruined sites of Wayne Tower, or anything, he went to the Manor. Damian still had not heard from Lian; the few days, he’d spent inside, poring over evidence while Tim oversaw not only the restoration of the house, but also the duties associated with lookign after their great maw of a city, communicating with Barbara and Steph and Jason and, Damian intentionally tried not to think, Ellen’s team as well…

            It was late evening and Damian sat in the window space at the back of the house, a sketchbook before him and a thick pencil in hand. It was the farthest he could get away from the construction at the front. The chess piece, the black king, rested beside him. The door to the room was left open; vaguely, he heard the murmuring sounds of his father speaking to Alfred, and to Tim too. He thought he heard his name, but could not be sure and didn’t dwell on it, focusing on the cold chill outside of the window. It was the tail end of winter, and their ordeal had lasted too many months. It occurred to him that Lian had left just days before her birthday. He stopped, staring out at the window, feeling the cold slowly leaching through the air from the frozen glass. Lian was younger than him by a matter of months. He thought that he would’ve liked it, if she’d stayed.

            The door to the parlor opened, and Damian took a moment to look around. Tucked into the wide windowsill upon which they’d years ago placed pillows and a comforter, he felt like a child again, and without another word he began to get to his feet, picking up the cane. “Don’t strain yourself,” said Bruce, and they both knew it was intent to wound.

            There was a silence between them, broken only by the sounds of construction at the front of the house. Defiantly, Damian sat.

            Bruce said: “You did a very foolish thing.”

            “Yes,” responded Damian. “But I won.”

            “Tommy Elliot has done worse to us before.”

            “What?” Damian shot back, voice hard. “You would have rather he released those photos? At least this way it came out on our terms.”

            “On _your_ terms.”

            “On mine, yes,” Damian countered, viscerally irritated. “Hush posed Lian like a toy, _used_ her like an object.”

            “And I suppose you’re so-”

            “ _Don’t_ say it,” said Damian, face twisting slightly in a disgusted grimace. “I know what I did, Father. And we both know that I was seventeen, and selfish, and I’ve taken responsibility for that. Lian was there for the trial, remember? She knows as well, and she still tolerates me. Surely if she can do it, you can as well.”

            Bruce watched him. Then he said: “I heard Oracle managed to date the footage.”

            Glumly, Damian nodded. “It was all very quiet,” he replied, “but apply a little pressure, threaten to press charges. And, of course, get Oracle remove every copy already out there. And then it’s done. And I never have to worry about it again.”

            Silence. Then Bruce sat down in the loveseat across from Damian’s perch, and lowly, he said, “No. You have to worry about it every day of your life, Damian. You can’t buy your way out of everything, and you can’t buy yourself a conscience.”

            “Funny you’d say that,” Damian replied mildly. “After the things you’ve been up to, lately.”

            At this, Bruce did not blink. “Really?” he asked. “What precisely does that mean?”

            Damian picked up the black king beside him, holding it up to Bruce between his thumb and forefinger. He tossed it to his father, who caught it with one hand. “Hush never gave me a king,” he said.

            Bruce stared at him.

            “I thought I was the king,” he continued, glancing down at the floor, then up at his father again. “But I don’t think I am. I think I’m the player.”

            “Where is this going?”

            “Nine months ago,” continued Damian, watching the chess piece in his father’s hand, “Iris West disappeared. It took them too long to involve her in the trial. You had to have noticed. And even then, when Moss confronted me – she only mentioned the fact that the Gibraltar account received a wire transfer.” He paused, his heavy brow hanging over those dark eyes. “She didn’t even mention the fact that Bruce Wayne transferred one point two million dollars out of Foundation expenses the day after she disappeared.” He paused, then added, "Not to mention the fact that you  _left_ , so we couldn't question you."

            Bruce stared at him, emotionless and unreadable.

            Damian sat there, waiting for a response, refusing to say more.

            And then Bruce shifted, almost uncomfortably, and he said, quietly: “Those were Wayne Enterprises funds. That money does not belong to the Foundation, it belongs to me.”

            Damian sat there. And then, fuming, he jerked his head away, jaw clenched in rage. “Did you know?” he said, tightly. “About Hush? Is that why you left?”

            “No,” said Bruce, honestly. “I left because it was an emergency. I didn’t know Tommy would come back, and I never anticipated you looking far enough into this to find out-”

            “You were _hiding_ it from me-”

            “ _Damian_ ,” said Bruce, harshly. “Of course I was hiding it from you. You have a long history with Iris West, and you have always been vulnerable when it comes to her. The last time you parted ways with her, it sent you down on a spiral of reckless self-destruction. I was _not_ going to allow that to happen again."

            Furious, the younger man tried to stand; he winced in pain, and clutched on to the cane beside him. “So you admit it,” he said, venom in his voice. “This is about Iris. Why not use League funds? We have an entire, official budget for Batman at your disposal. So maybe her family can’t afford whatever it was you provided, but since when have you had to steal your _own_ money-”

            “Because no one was supposed to know,” said Bruce, his voice stark and stony.

            Damian watched him, and then began to pace. Each step, he relied less and less on the cane, the pain dulling in favor of his anger and frustration. “What did you do with it?” he asked, rubbing his temple. A migraine was budding behind his eyes, threatening to drill into his skull. “It’s not like the search had to be funded. She’s _related_ to almost every speedster on Earth, they’d run around the clock for her.”

            Shaking his head, Bruce placed the black chess piece onto the table beside him. “I wasn’t trying to find her,” he said lowly. “I was funding research to stop her.”

            It was as if a cold hush settled across the room. Damian stopped pacing, and turned to look at him. “Stop her,” he echoed. “What does that mean?”

            Lifting his gaze up to meet his son’s, Bruce asked, “What do you think?” When Damian did not immediately respond, Bruce leaned forward slightly, as if in explanation. “You know, far better than most, what she’s capable of. The kind of speed she’s exhibiting-”

            “She’s not _exhibiting_ it,” Damian spat. “She’s trapped by it.”

            “You don’t know that,” said Bruce, with another shake of his head. “And she’s shown herself vulnerable to versions of mind control as well. That kind of power, in the wrong hands…”

            “Mind control,” echoed Damian. He placed his hand on his own chest, and, disbelievingly, he said: “The one and only time that happened, Father, it was _my_ fault.”

            “It was Lian Harper’s fault,” countered Bruce. “And who was it, again, who had been in hiding with Iris for three years?”

            Damian stared at his father. And then he shook his head slightly, glancing around, back to the cold window. Softly, he said, “I could hit you.”

            Bruce stood up, holding his arms out slightly. “Go right ahead,” he said. “I won’t retaliate. I wouldn’t hit an injured man, much less my son.”

            “Don’t call me that,” muttered Damian. He turned back to the windowsill, picking up his sketchbook and pencil. Around his neck, hidden by his warm sweater, there was a thin silver chain. When he looked back at his father, sketchbook under his arm, he said: “I’m going to leave.”

            “All right. Goodnight.”

            “I mean the house,” said Damian. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I hate being under this roof. I’m going to leave.”

            Bruce blinked at him. “That’s your prerogative,” he said. “Just be careful where you take your money from.”

            There was tension between them, and they both felt it, but neither one of them wanted to be the first to acknowledge it. Despite everything that had passed between them in the last few minutes, it was all only words. Bruce didn’t believe him, Damian could tell, and in return, Damian _hated_ him for keeping this a secret for him, and he hated the reasons why he hated it most of all.

            Bruce was the first to move. He headed back towards the door, leaving the little black king on the table.

            Before he left the room, Damian said, “Father.” Bruce glanced around. Damian looked up, to meet his gaze. “Whatever you were funding,” he said, selecting his words carefully. “Something to stop her…” he trailed off.

            Bruce raised an eyebrow at him.

            Damian asked: “Did it work?”

\------

            They met, for not the first time, and not the last, on the roof of the Titans Tower. Damian was there first, wearing a thick jacket to ward against the growing cold and the harsh wind from over the bay. He wore no mask.

            They – and this did not surprise him – all seemed to arrive at the same time, in a wave of bodies alighting from flight, or otherwise climbing up from the stairs inside the Tower. Chris looked mostly the same, except for a bristle of stubble lining his jaw; Milagro also didn’t seem much different, except she had cut her hair relatively short in the years it had been, and her face seemed more defined and angular, more reminiscent of her brother’s. It was Maxy and Sin who seemed the most different. The last time Damian had seen them, they’d been kids, barely in their teens. It had been - what, four years? And yet they were almost unrecognizable, grown people now.

            Lian followed with Sin. It had been little more than a week since Damian had last seen her, but her pixie-short hair was no longer bubblegum pink, instead a sleek, natural-looking black.

            Damian looked at all of them, and then glanced at the watch on his wrist. “He should be here soon,” he said.

            There was a familiar _whoosh_ , and Milagro grinned, and began, “Speak of the devil _…_ ”

            Jai West – looking not quite tall, but strong, and whole, and older – stood there, beside Damian. He gave a sideways, sheepish little smile, and Damian began, “Jai – thank you for coming, I’m-” but he cut off suddenly as Jai reached out and took hold of him, squeezing him in a tight hug.

            It was like a breath of relief ran through them all – Maxy let out an actual sigh, falling onto Sin, collecting Lian into her happy embrace – and Jai pulled away as they laughed, exchanging hugs and embraces, taking the moment to revel in seeing each other again, after everything that had happened. “ _Dios mio_ ,” said Milagro, shaking her head at Damian. “I thought I’d never see you again, dumbass.”

            “And I’d hoped the same for you,” he replied, holding onto her arm. “How’s space?”

            “Space is huge, and empty, and boring,” she said to him, grinning. “Kind of like your head.”

            “I missed you,” said Damian. “Dearly.”

            “Ah, _pendejo_. You were wrong to leave.”

            “Damian,” said Chris, leaning in. “You said you were going to explain why you made me call Superman in the middle of an important mission…”

            “I will,” Damian assured him. “But we have something more important to do first.”

            “Yeah,” said Maxy, smiling up at Damian – almost shyly. It was strange to see her, older but still so young: the age Damian had been, the last time he saw her. “We’re all here for Irey, aren’t we?”

            “Yes,” replied Damian, nodding. “We are.”

            “Why all of us?” asked Lian. She stood behind Sin and Maxy, somewhat removed from the rest of the group, and she watched Damian with smoky eyes.

            He glanced back at her, meeting her gaze. “Because,” he replied, “this may be able to get her to slow down, but we need…something that’ll make her stay.” He paused, then added, “And there are very few things on this Earth she loved more than all of us.”

            “So?” asked Jai. He looked impossibly well, for spending four years of his life comatose. Speed suited him well, had broadened his shoulders, filled out his height, made him healthy and strong. “What do we do?”

            Damian reached into his pockets, and produced two cuffs. He lifted Jai’s arm, then attached one around his wrist, and one around the opposite wrist. Jai clasped his fingers around the cuffs, confused. “What are these?” he asked, and there was a static, flickering quality to his voice; he could, Damian thought, already feel it.

            “They’re generators,” Damian told him. “Well, actually, _you’re_ the generator, the cuffs just direct and refract your energy, like a mirror.”

            “Refract my energy?”

            “The Speed Force,” Damian clarified. “Which you tap into, when you run.”

            “What does it get refracted into?”

            “Overly simple, if you ask me,” sighed Damian. “But it’s called the Negative Speed Force.”

            Jai glanced up at him, expression dark. He asked: “How did you get these?”

            “They’re a Batman, Inc. R-and-D independent project,” Damian replied simply. At Jai’s look, he admitted, “And…based on the work of Eobard Thawne.”

            Milagro let out a long sigh. “Damian,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t just steal tech from supervillains.”

            “It’s not stolen,” Damian said curtly. “Developed.” He held up Jai’s wrists. “These cuffs should contain it, prevent it from infecting the Speed Force, or harming you or your sister.”

            “OK,” said Sin, not yet understanding. “So how does it slow her down?”

            This time, Jai responded before Damian could. “The Negative Speed Force does exactly what it sounds like,” he explained, looking at the cuffs in awe. “It negates the Speed Force.”

            “Right,” said Damian, nodding. “And they’re saying she can’t slow down because she’s changing the fundamental nature of the Speed Force, bringing it onto our plane of reality – consuming it.”

            “Letting it consume her.”

            Damian looked back at Lian. She did not seem unimpressed. “Yes,” he said. “If we can just reduce those effects, maybe she can slow down enough to gain control over it.”

            “Wow,” said Jai, inspecting the cuffs. “Genius.”

            “Thank you,” said Damian.

            “So – what do I have to do?”

            Damian watched him for a moment. And then he said: “Run.”

            And then Jai was gone.

            For a long, terrible minute, nothing happened, and Damian’s heart sank. If all this effort, trouble, and pain had gone into nothing – into failure yet again…

            Lian seemed to sense this, and sidled up to him. Leaning in towards his ear, she murmured, “How long has she been out there?”

            Damian didn’t reply immediately. And then, quietly, he said, “Nine months.”

            “And…Damian. It hurts like hell to say this, but have you ever considered…there might not be something left to save?”

            “No,” said Damian bluntly.

            There was silence. Then Lian, voice even lower, leaned in again and muttered, “Ten bucks says she stays for you, not me.”

            “Don’t be petty,” said Damian.

            And then it all happened at once: a flash of yellow and red lightning, colliding on the roof of the Tower, blowing them with sweeping wind and sheer power. The once-Titans staggered backwards, shielding their eyes from the light of the crackling electricity, hot and hovering above the Tower, then-

            The blinding light faded, but crimson-gold lightning still cracked around the two bodies there, in the center of the roof: Jai West, eyes and wrist cuffs glowing red, and his sister Iris, everything on her body crackling and popping with sheer electric power.

            With a voice like the energy in thunder, Iris said, “Damian.”

            Damian watched her, mouth hanging slightly open in awe.

            Then, without glancing away from Iris, he reached into his pocket, extracted something, and handed a ten dollar bill to Lian.

            “Damian,” said Iris again, flickering like static before him. “ _What have you done_?”

            The strange, relieved smile that had begun to grow on his face disappeared. “What?” he asked, voice hardly audible above the sound of solid lightning.

            Her voice boomed with power. “The multiverse,” she said, and it almost sounded like an accusation. “It’s out of control – sending reverberations from – everywhere. Something – triggered it – triggered me, something on the pulse of the Speed Force – an – anomaly-”

            “Anomaly?” repeated Damian, nearly indignant. “What does that have to do with me?”

            “ _Multiverse_ ,” repeated Iris, flickering before him, eyes a bright golden-yellow, lighting up the low orange-reds in her hair. “ _Trigger – anomaly-_ ”

            Iris shuddered, eyes wide, red electricity twisting around her, consuming her.

            She breathed, directly to Damian: “ _Your fault_.”

            And then she collapsed, and the light faded, and she was solid and unmoving, reunited with the Titans once more on the dark roof of the Tower.


	19. Epilogue: Alfil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alfil is a very old piece, appearing in some very early chess variants such as Tamerlane chess and shatranj. Its original move is uncertain; two possibilities, excluding the current alfil move, are the dabbaba move and the move of the silver general from shogi. However, the modern alfil can only reach one eighth of the squares on the board, while the dabbaba can reach one quarter and the silver general can reach every square on the board.
> 
> The alfil's current two-square diagonal leap is sometimes considered to be the original move. It has been theorized that the main reason for the changes during the Renaissance which made the alfil stronger in modern chess, i.e. turning it into the bishop, was that the alfil was originally the weakest piece in the game.

            Lian sat at the bare metal table. It felt like an interrogation room, except there was no one-sided mirror, from what she could tell – although maybe the organization had outgrown those, instead using the cameras hidden at every corner. The chair beneath her was stark and plain, and she waited, patiently, in silence.

            The door to the room entered, and a woman with a dark patch of skin surrounding her left eye entered the room. She held a manila folder under one arm, and small Styrofoam cups in both hands.

            She placed the cups onto the table. “Coffee?” she asked mildly. Lian took a cup, and the woman reached down and pulled it away from her. “Yours is this one,” she said, nudging the other cup her way. “Splash of cream, two scoops sugar.”

            Lian took the cup, and lifted it to her lips to take a sip. Before she tipped it into her mouth, she asked, “You know how I take my coffee, Director?”

            Calmly, the woman responded, “I know a lot about you, Agent Harper.”

            She sat across from Lian, opening the folder before her. For a few moments, she rifled through the documents it contained, reading them over, fingers at the base of her coffee cup, swirling the liquid within.

            “You’ve been busy,” she remarked. “You lost your assignment.”

            “I found her again,” replied Lian, holding the cup of coffee.

            “Nine months later,” the woman said pointedly, eyes still on the papers before her. “And the way I heard it, Damian Wayne found her, not you.”

            “His father developed the tech we used to slow her down,” Lian said. “He wasn’t the one who found her, personally.”

            “Neither were you. Personally.”

            With a shrug, Lian leaned back in her seat and said coolly, “It was a team effort.” When the woman said nothing else, Lian continued, “Give me some credit, Director. Sure, I may have lost Impulse for a few months, but I got _in_ with the Waynes. I’m an official agent of Batman, Inc. Damian Wayne took personal responsibility for my actions-”

            “And in doing so,” the woman interrupted, glancing up at her, “you exposed your position as a double-agent to the League of Assassins. This was a compromise, not a victory.”

            Lian watched the woman. Then she took another sip of her coffee. “It would’ve happened anyway,” she said. “Plus this way, I managed to bag Arete for you. That has to count for something.”

            The woman nodded vaguely. “But you’re public, now.”

            “So was my father, when he worked for you,” Lian replied.

            “He didn’t work for _me_ ,” replied the woman.

            “For this organization, I mean.” Lian watched the other woman for a moment. Then Lian placed her coffee on the table and leaned forward, staring straight back at the woman. Lian's stark expression was reflected in her superior's eyes, one dark and one red. “You’re being too harsh on me, Director Bordeaux,” she said, her voice low. “I know what I did well, and I’m not afraid to say so.”

            For a long moment, Sasha Bordeaux, Checkmate’s Black Queen, watched Lian carefully. Glancing down at the table, she laid all the papers down neatly, then closed the folder before her, and looked back at Lian. “I am being harsh on you,” she admitted. “I do so because I hold you to high standards, Agent. Impossible standards. My team," she continued, meeting Lian's eyes, "must be the best, Agent Harper."

            Lian stared at her. She was well-trained enough that there was no outward physical indication, but in her ribcage, her pulse increased, heart beating with a faint, dawning realization.

            Sasha folded her arms across her chest, leaning back in her seat. “Torches pass, Harper. Flames fade. One assassin with better aim than we anticipated, and suddenly the Royal Family finds itself bereft.”

            “Surely you're not desperate,” Lian replied, with a small, perfect smile. “Not with you in charge, Director.”

            “I never said desperate,” Sasha replied. She watched Lian. There was an odd droning buzz in the room, the sound of the fluorescent lights above them. Lian wondered, vaguely, why Checkmate couldn’t afford some more flattering lighting. Then again, it could be an intimidation tactic, considering how she still suspected this was a currently unused interrogation room. The woman before her shifted slightly, and then the steel legs of the chair beneath her screeched on the concrete floor, and Sasha got to her feet. “But we have the opening and you have the skills,” she remarked, casually, as if she could not see the lights flashing in triumph behind Lian’s eyes. “Welcome to the family, Bishop. It’s a good thing you don’t have a secret identity anymore, because your home is here now.”

            “Do I get to assemble my pawns?” asked Lian, still sitting.

            “Anyone you bring in needs confirmation from me,” Sasha told her. “I'm sure Agent Wilson can provide you with recommendations. She’s good, and you know that. If you want to be successful here you have to work closely with your family.” Holding the folder, she continued, “But since you seem so eager, who did you have in mind?”

            “Damian Wayne,” said Lian, without hesitation.

            “No,” said Sasha calmly. “We keep the Waynes out of our castle, Harper.”

            Lian didn’t say anything. Standing before the table, Sasha dug her hand into her pocket and took something out, offering it to Lian. She took the card carefully, holding it tightly in her hand. 

            “Take your time,” said Sasha. “But we expect another name by tomorrow morning.”

            Sasha turned to leave, but Lian said, “Wait.”

            The woman glanced around.

            “What about Director Waller?”

            Sasha raised an eyebrow. “What _about_ Director Waller?”

           “I heard she was recruiting.”

            At this, Sasha seemed genuinely taken aback, unsure of Lian’s intention. “That's not an option for you,” she replied. “You’ve made your feelings about the Squad very clear.”

            Shaking her head, Lian said, “Not the Suicide Squad. In the White Queen’s Royal Family, does she have a position open?”

            Considering this, Sasha replied: “For a pawn, maybe.”

            “Perfect,” said Lian. “She needs Ellen Nayar.”

            Doubtfully, the Black Queen raised her eyebrows. “Damian Wayne’s fiancée?”

            “Ex-fiancée, probably, at this point,” replied Lian. “But yes, her.”

            "Why not take her on as your pawn?”

            “If I can't get him in, then I don't need someone that close to Damian knowing my position in this organization,” Lian explained, getting to her feet. “And she’d do better under the White Queen anyway. Amanda will use her well.”

            For a long moment, Sasha watched Lian. Then she held out her hand, and Lian took it firmly. “Good luck,” she said, “Agent Harper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all chess descriptions are adapted from wikipedia!
> 
> there is one teeny eensy part left!


	20. POST-SCRIPT

**IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE**  

            The master bedroom in Wayne Manor lit up with a loud, hoarse, trilling scream. Holding his wife’s hand tightly, the man reached up and placed a cool wet towel on her face. “Shh, shh,” he whispered, watching her with worry, and unadulterated love. “You’re almost there.”

            From the base of the bed, the midwife looked up at them. “One more big push!”

            The woman, drenched in sweat, face contorted in pain, squeezed her husband’s hand, gritting her teeth as she let out another grunting shout.

            And then the room was filled with the sound of a baby crying as the newborn took its first breath outside the womb. The mother let out a long, unsteady breath, and reached out, hands shaking. The midwife handed the baby to her, and she held it close to her chest, tears in her eyes.

            “Congratulations,” said the midwife, beaming at them. “You have a healthy baby boy.”

            The man looked down at the child in his wife’s arms, and she reached out, rubbing her thumb along their baby’s face. Then she looked up at her husband. “Damian,” she said to him, face stained with sweat and tears. “Meet your son.”

            She held her arms out, and Damian took the baby boy, staring down at him in awe, in love, in adoration. “Son,” he murmured, tasting the word in his life. “My son.”

            The midwife asked, “Do you have a name picked out?”

            The man nodded, holding the baby so delicately, unable to tear his eyes away.

            “His name,” Damian said gently, “is Nabil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!!!!!! Nabil's birth is super important in the larger scheme of Earth-28, please check out the E28 series on my profile! :)


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